


You Know Better

by xfandomwritingsx



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Reader-Insert, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2018-08-10 03:33:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 32
Words: 78,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7828864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xfandomwritingsx/pseuds/xfandomwritingsx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You and Peter develop a slow relationship when you ask him to teach you how to fight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Favor

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm new to A03 so if anything is wrong, apologies. I've just been posting on tumblr recently. But anyways, I have no idea how long this story will be as I intend it to be a slow burn. Rating may be raised later on depending on where this goes.

You feel a bit like a drowned rat. It had started down-pouring the moment you got into your car and hadn’t stopped. And because you didn’t have the code to get through the community gates (because of course Peter Hale would live in one of those places), you had to park down the street and slip through a hole in the metal fence and walk to his apartment. Well… run actually. You ran to the covered stairs and ran up to the third floor to knock on his door.

You stand outside, listening to the rain beating against the roof, falling onto the pavement. It doesn’t even sound like rain. It sounds like a steady sheet of thin rocks just falling from the sky. You shiver and hold your thin jacket tighter against your body. You’re completely soaked. After a minute or so, you knock again.

When he opens the door, he’s surprised to see you there. He pauses for a moment and his eyes widen just slightly. It doesn’t take more than a few seconds for him to fall into his usual demeanor. A cocky smile sweeps onto his lips and he drops his shoulders, leaning slightly on his doorframe. He’s wearing jeans and a grey v-neck and for a moment you wonder if he even owns anything else.

“Well, to what do I owe the pleasure?” There’s snark even in his greeting and you roll your eyes, briefly wondering what the hell you were thinking coming here.

“Mind letting a girl in outta the rain?” you ask. He cocks his head.

“Depends on what said girl wants.” He crosses his arms against his chest as he puts all of his weight on the doorframe and somehow manages to take up the entire space.

“Right now I want to dry off,” you snap at him, already irritated at being wet and cold and not enjoying watching him toy with you. Peter just lifts his chin and looks down condescendingly at you. You sigh and take a moment to gather your words before saying, “And then I have a favor to ask.”  _That_  peaks his interest. He raises an eyebrow and hums softly.

“Then come on in.” He pushes himself off the frame and takes hold of the door. He barely steps aside, leaving you to squeeze past him when you walk in. You make sure not to brush against him and to move quickly. He still gives you the creeps, especially with the way his eyes linger on your body, with the fabric of your clothes clinging to your skin.

His apartment is surprisingly normal. You don’t know what you were expecting, but a normal apartment wasn’t it. He has furniture and rugs and even tasteful artwork on the walls. You walk into his living room, unsure of what to do with yourself. His couch is nice, black leather that’s probably very expensive. You don’t feel it would be appropriate to sit on it when you’re already dripping onto his carpet.

You hear the door shut behind you and when you look back at him, he’s opening a closet door. When he reaches up to the top shelf, his shirt rises up, showing off the bottom of his toned back. You admit he’s attractive… in a psycho, dangerous, serial killer type of way. Your eyes are drawn to the way his body moves, the way his jeans fit around his hips.

You force yourself to look away before he turns back and sees you. That’s the last thing you need right now. It startles you when he pushes a white, fluffy square in front of you. You hadn’t heard him approach. You look down and realize he’s offering you a folded towel.

“Oh,” you say, reaching you to take it. “Thanks.” As you start to dry yourself off, squeezing the towel against your body and clothes, brushing it over your skin and ruffling it through your matted hair, Peter walks over and takes a seat on his couch.

“Now about that favor,” he says smoothly, leaning back to make himself comfortable.

“I want to learn to fight,” you tell him, brushing the towel over your arms again, your skin still damp and prickled in chilled goosebumps. Peter cocks his head again and narrows his eyes at you.

“Fight?” He says the word slowly, letting it roll on his tongue as though he’s testing it, making sure it’s what you had said.

“Yes. As in hand-to-hand combat.” He leans forward so his elbows rest on his knees and folds his hands under his chin. His eyes look at you, trailing over your body and for once, it didn’t make you feel creeped out or uncomfortable. He isn’t looking at your curves or judging you. He’s looking at your muscle build, at your stance. He’s sizing you up. He’s actually taking you seriously.

“Why?” he asks once he looks up back to your eyes again. All the humor is gone. He asks the question sharply.

“I want to be able to protect myself.” There is no hesitation in your answer. You had thought about it. You had decided. “I want to know if you will teach me.”

“They offer self-defense classes at the high school.” He shrugs and tilts his head, runs his tongue along the bottom edge of his top teeth, contemplating. You roll your eyes.

“They teach you how to scream and hit a man in the crotch when he tries to steal your purse when you walk down a dark alley.” His lips tip up in a slight smirk, bordering on a humored smile. “They don’t teach you how to fight off a werewolf or a kanima or a druid whatever else is out there.” He suddenly scoffs and leans back in his couch again, like he’s bored.

“You’d never be able to fight off a werewolf even with proper training.” He looks off to the side, seemingly fascinated by the painting on his wall. Your jaw clenches as he ignores you, brushes you off.

“But it will help,” you say firmly, stomping up to him, hearing your feet and socks squish in your shoes. You stand in front of him and stare down, willing him to look at you, no longer caring if you’re dripping onto his furniture. He doesn’t look, of course. “Knowing how to dodge a punch, being able to predict their next move…” You pause and your voice turns quiet and heavy. “That could save my life.”

His eyes slowly slide away from the painting back to you. He looks you dead in your eyes, his lips set in an even line, brows creasing together just slightly. You resist the urge to cross your arms over your chest, to fidget in any way.

“And why come to me?” he asks, his voice now quieter. It wasn’t a whisper and it wasn’t soft, but it was genuine. You have his attention again.

“Who else can fight?” you question back, almost scoffing at his asking. “I don’t think Derek has ever won a fight and the entire pack learned to fight from him.” Peter chuckles a little, bowing his head with the smallest hint of a smile. “You know how to fight. You know how to win.” You’re not really looking to feed his ego, but it’s the truth and you want to learn from someone good, someone who can do more than just hold his own.

“What about the Argents?” The way he says it makes it sound like a trick question, like if you answer wrong, he’s going to turn you away.

“They’ll tell me it’s too dangerous. I’m not part of their family, their code. They’d push me out their front door in seconds.” You pause. “And even if I got them to agree, they’d take it easy on me. I don’t want them to throw slow hits. I want someone who’s going to give it their all.” Peter smirks widely at that. Slowly, he stands up and walks to you. He stops inches from you, towering over you and you have to resist the urge to step back.

“You realize you just gave me permission to hit you with full force?” he questions, the smirk turning slightly more into a smile. You almost want to smile with him. You know it sounds ridiculous, laughable.

“If you teach me properly, you shouldn’t be able to land a hit.” You raise your eyebrows, almost challenging and he chuckles at you. You have a feeling he won’t actually hurt you. You’re not sure why, but there’s something about him that says he’s not going to knock you out. He won’t take it easy on you, but he’s also not going pummel you into the ground.

“You were always my favorite human.” You aren’t sure if that’s a good compliment or not, but it sends some kind of chilly crawl down your spine. He moves sideways and walks away from you.

“So is that a yes?” you ask. He turns his head to look at you, but keeps walking away towards an archway you assume leads to the kitchen.

“Be here tomorrow at noon. We’ll get started then.” He pauses at the archway and puts a hand on the trim looking back at you like he’s considering something. “You can let yourself out,” he tells you and then shrugs. “Or you can wait until the rain settles down. Up to you.”

He disappears through the archway, leaving you in his living room still soaking his floor. You can hear the rain still hounding down on the building and consider your options. You’re going to be spending time with Peter anyways, might as well start now.

Trying to ignore the uncomfortable squish of your shoes, you follow his trail into the kitchen. It’s brightly lit and suddenly you realize  _that’s_ what’s off about his place to you. It’s so bright. White towels, white cabinets, hard white lightbulbs instead of the old soft yellow ones illuminating the rooms despite the cloudy darkness from outside; all of it is not what you had expected. Derek’s loft is always dim and almost grungy. You just unconsciously assumed it was a werewolf thing.

“You’ve got a nice place,” you comment as you step further inside. Peter is standing in front of the counter, pouring two cups of hot coffee into newly bought mugs. You sit yourself down at the wooden table, creamer, sugar, and a spoon already sitting there waiting.

“Remember that tomorrow when you’re being thrown all over the place,” he chuckles, his voice low and amused. He turns with mugs in hand and places one in front of you. You can already feel the warmth of it just being near your cold bones. You start mixing your coffee together the way you like it. “Try not to break anything expensive.” His face is serious and if you had blinked at the wrong time, you would have missed the playfully wink he gave at the end of the sentence. You wrap your hands around the mug and smile.

“I’ll try not to shove you into anything new and shiny.” You take a sip of the coffee and watch as he smirks at you. The coffee feels good, hot and smooth as you swallow and it spreads through your body, warming you up. Peter takes a seat across from you.

“We can put your jacket, shoes, and socks in the dryer if you want,” He gives a nod to your wet clothes and starts drinking his coffee.

“You put shoes in the dryer?” you question, raising an eyebrow. “That’s not good for the machine.” Peter rolls his eyes at you.

“What part of me says ‘fully domesticated’ to you?” You consider making a remark about how nicety of his apartment does, but hold your tongue instead. The prospect of being able to leave with dry feet was one you don’t want to pass up. You simply shake your head and stand up.

You use your feet to kick off your shoes and then bend over, one hand on the table to steady yourself, and yank off your socks one at a time. They put up a fight and try to meld themselves to your feet, but you get them off with a little effort, leaving your feet chilled and damp, almost spongy even. You can feel Peter’s eyes on you when you straighten up and start to peel your jacket off of you. He sips his coffee casually, but watches every little move your body makes.

It’s strange. The same look yesterday would have made you squirm and feel violated. Right now though, there’s just the smallest difference that put you at ease. He’s still sizing you up. He watches the way your muscles move, the flexibility of your shoulders, how limber you are. It makes you pay attention to your movements, a part of you actually wanting to impress him, to show him you weren’t just a weak little human. A day ago, you would have done anything to keep his eyes off of you. Today, you want them admiring you.

Left in your pants and tank top, you gather all your clothes in your arms and ask, “Where’s your dryer?” Peter puts down his coffee and stands up, extending his hands.

“I’ll take them. It shouldn’t take too long.” You hand over your clothes and he walks out another doorway. The rain is still pounding down outside as you sit back down and drink more of your coffee. Somewhere in the back of the apartment you hear the dryer start up and the heavy thunking of your shoes inside it.

Peter reemerges from the doorway and sits down across from you again. You give him a friendly smile and he watches you carefully as he takes another drink. He narrows his eyes a little and says nothing.

“What?” you ask finally, the silence quickly becoming awkward.

“So what does your little pack think about you coming to me?” He leans back and slouches slightly in his chair, his legs extending under the table, closer to you, invading your personal space in such an odd and small way.

“I didn’t discuss it with them,” you tell him honestly. This was a decision you made on your own.

“So no one knows you’re here?”

“Why do you make that sound like you’re going to enjoy killing me and burying me if I say no?” You put your cup on table and tilt your head at him. His smirk returns.

“Just trying to keep up with everyone’s secrets.” The way he says it, the way he drawls the word “secrets,” makes it seem dirty and taboo. It twists your stomach in a knot and there’s a part of you that’s not so sure you don’t like it.

“It’s not a secret,” you protest. “I just didn’t ask for their permission. If I want to learn to protect myself, I’m going to learn.” His fingers tap against his cup and his eyes slowly roll over you again. You sigh. “And no,” you give in. “They wouldn’t like it if they knew.”

He smirks widely, taking that as an admission of this being a secret. You find yourself smiling, a small chuckle boiling up in your chest. Fine, it’s probably a secret for now, but you aren’t about to openly say it to him. It would give him too much pleasure.

You chat about nothing over coffee for another few minutes. You talk about the weather and the rain, about the mugs he just bought because the others had broken when he moved them, about nothing important. It’s casual and surprisingly not as uncomfortable as you ever thought it would. This is actually the first time you’ve been truly alone with him. He didn’t try to eat you so you take it as a win.

You hear the beeping of the dryer and your shoes thud for a final time. Peter rises and holds his hand out for your now empty coffee cup. He drops both cups into the sink before he leaves to get your clothes. You stand and stretch yourself out, finally feeling a little dry and comfortable.

Peter returns and the moment he walks in the door you see one of your shoes flying at your face. Your hands shoot up and you catch it, but the second you lower it a safe distance from your face, the other one follows suit. You dodge your head to the side and it barely misses grazing your cheek, flying behind you and thudding into a cabinet. Wide eyed and open-mouthed, you stare at Peter, shocked and confused.

“The hell?” you yell at him. He simply shrugs.

“Decent reflexes,” he comments offhandedly. “Should sharpen them up though.” He extends his hand, holding out your jacket and socks. A part of you wonders if he’s got some other hidden trap within them, but you still gingerly reach out and take them.

“I thought training didn’t start until tomorrow.” You hate how insulted you sound.

“Doesn’t mean I can’t access you now,” he says. You decide not to argue, not to answer and simply put your socks and shoes back on. “There’s a break in the rain,” he’s looking out the kitchen window, still dark and grey, but he’s right. The rain had fallen down to a little drizzle, no longer pounding down on the glass. “You should leave while you can.” He doesn’t give you time to answer, simply walks past you, silently leading you towards the front door.

Jacket still in hand and shoes untied, you follow him back into the living room. He puts his hands on the doorknob, but waits as you get your shoes situated and tied before he goes to pull it open. He stands partially blocking the doorway, and looks you over once more.

“Tomorrow at noon,” he confirms with you. You nod. “Wear something flexible, something tight.” His voice takes on that low drawl and his eyes practically gleam with deviance. A little wave of heat flushes under your skin and just like before, you’re not sure that you don’t like it.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” Feeling a little braver than when you walked in, you walk through the sliver of doorway he provides, letting your shoulder brush along his chest and lightly push him out of the way. You try not to notice how it feels, hard and toned, under your arm.

He flashes you one more smirk before closing the door. You stand outside and slip your jacket on. It smells like whatever dryer sheet he had thrown in with it. It smells just a little like him.


	2. Get Out of It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your first training session with Peter is a little more intense than you expect it to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember, this is a slow burn. So don’t expect some hot, hot training session where they rip each other’s clothes off…yet!

The rain ended last night, but the stickiness of it still hangs in the air and clings to the ground. You’re standing outside of his apartment in a grey tank top and black yoga pants, holding a bag filled with water, a towel, and even a change of clothes. You hate that you actually put thought into the outfit this morning. Not much, but Peter’s words from yesterday hung in your mind.  _Flexible, tight._  You had gone through a couple of different options before settling on these.

You don’t have to wait long after knocking for Peter to answer the door. It swings open and he looms in the doorway, a satisfied look on his face. He steps aside and bows his head just slightly, greeting you silently. You walk into his apartment to find his furniture has been pushed to the edges of the room, the middle completely empty. You toss your bag onto his couch so it’s out of the way.

You turn to say something to him, probably something sassy, but stop when you see he’s closed the door and he’s looking at you with ice blue eyes. It’s unnerving to say the least. It’s the first time you’ve questioned your decision about this. You know Peter can be dangerous, but you’ve never seen him look at  _you_  with those eyes. Not like this, not like you’re going to be his next victim.

You open your mouth to say something, to break this terrifying moment, but nothing comes out and before you have a chance to process it, he’s striding towards you. He reaches out and grabs your wrist. With a tight grip, he spins you so your back is to his chest and grabs your other wrist. He pulls your arms tight across your middle, crisscrossing them and locking them down by your hips, making you feel like you’re in a straitjacket. His fingers dig into your skin and he holds you unbelievably tight against him.

“Get out of it,” he whispers harshly when he brings his lips down to your ear. You’re pretty sure you can feel the points of fangs on the shell of your ear and the hard, toned chest against your back doesn’t bring out an attraction, but a fear. He could snap your arms out of their sockets if he wanted. He could hold you down and take the life out of you almost instantly. 

“Let go, Peter,” you demand, body starting to panic. He chuckles sinisterly in your ear and brings his lips to your bare shoulder. He opens his mouth and his fangs gingerly scrape on the skin. You thrash your shoulders around, but can barely move, his hold on your arms making it ineffective. Your heart is starting to pound in your chest. “Peter! Let me go!”

“No.” It’s very matter-of-fact when he says it and you know right then that he is  _not_  just letting go of you. You try to kick your foot back towards him, and you connect with his shin, but he just tightens you closer to his chest and steps back, making you need to put your foot back on the floor. You keep thrashing in his hold, trying to break free, but he just keep holding tighter and tighter.

He leans back, heaving you up and picking your feet off the floor. You let out a loud yelp as he spins you, keeping you in his hold and practically throwing you back onto the ground. He growls in your ear.

Unsure of what else to do, you thrash again until he lifts his head away from you. You bring your chin down to your chest and then whip it backwards, slamming the back part of your skull into the bridge of his nose. You feel a sharp  _crack_  and a spinning pain spreading to your eyes, making you suddenly dizzy. Peter lets out a yell of his own and releases his hold on you finally.

You lunge forward through your pained haze and suck in a deep breath, your chest no longer feeling constricted. The rush of air feels like it gets caught in your throat and you cough a couple times before turning around, no longer trusting him to be behind you.

“What the hell?” you shout at him, rubbing at your red wrists. Peter stands on the other side of the room, eyes back to their normal color and blood running down from his crooked, broken nose all the way to the smirk painted on his lips. He reaches up and pinches his nose between the inside edge of his hands. With another crunch of bones, he twists and reset his nose to heal. His eyes go wide and he shakes his head to rid himself of the pain. “Peter!” 

“That wasn’t too bad,” he comments, almost like he’s praising you. “Make sure you take an Advil or your head is going to be pounding later.”

“It already is!” Your voice keeps getting higher, shriller, the shock and confusion bleeding into it. You rub the back of your head, feeling it damp and sticky with his blood. “Jesus!” The asshole chuckles as he moves to the closet to pull out a towel and wipe off his face. “Forget this.”

You whip yourself around and snag your bag off the couch before stomping towards the door. As you brush by him, Peter grabs your hand and turns your body to him. The grip on your hand is so different than it had been moments ago on your wrist. It was firm, but loose, fingers pressing into your palm, thumb resting on the back of your kuckles. You could pull your hand away with almost no effort if you wanted to. It was like he held on with just his fingertips, just trying to keep your attention, not trap you.

“Hey,” he snaps, voice much harsher than his touch. “You want to learn, I’ll teach you. But I’m not going to baby you. I’m not going sit here and let you just give up because I surprised you. You’re going to have to fight for it.” His eyes narrow and even though some part of you still wants to walk out, you don’t move. “Out there, you’re not going to have time to think. It’s going to be fight or flight just like that.” He leans in enough so that he casts a shadow over you. “You wanted me to teach you how to survive. Survival isn’t pretty. All that pretty form, dodge here, and punch there bullshit is going to get you killed.” When he pauses, you’re not sure if it’s for dramatic effect or to truly let his words sink in. Either way, it hits the intended purpose, filling your gut with a heavy dread. “ _You_  came to  _me_ ,” It’s at this moment you realize his fingers are still cradling your hand. His thumb slides up and his fingers flitter underneath it. “Because you wanted the hard reality and you know I’ll give it to you.” His hand slides out from yours, releasing it and letting it fall. “What do you want to do?” He leans back, the light from the ceiling cascading back onto you.

A part of you says you should leave, that there’s a damn good chance you’re going to get hurt if you don’t. The other part, a much larger part, knows that if you don’t stay, you’re going to end up dead. And you’d rather have some bumps and bruises and sore muscles than to not wake up one day.

Without saying a word, you walk back to the middle of the room and toss your bag back onto the couch. You turn to face him and lift your arms up at your sides in an exaggerated shrug. Peter smirks and starts to approach you again.

“There’s a lot to learn,” he tells you cockily. You tilt your head at him with a challenge in your eyes.

“Then teach me, Hale.” His smirk widens as he keeps approaching, keeps getting closer, even closer than he had been before. His chest nearly bumps into yours and you try to stand up straight, to slow down your pounding heart.

He lets out a small chuckle before he puts a hand on your breastbone and slips his foot behind yours. With a strong push, you find yourself flat out on your back, the breath shoved out of you as Peter kneels besides you, hand pressing down on your chest. His eyes start to shift colors and he shows his teeth.

“Get out of it,” he challenges. 

–

For the next two hours, Peter beats you down. He slams you to the ground, throws you, at what you know  _can’t_  be his full strength, into the couch. He locks you into holds and pins you down. You notice he never hits you though. He doesn’t throw a fist in your direction, doesn’t bring out the claws, doesn’t go near your face.

He lets you get your hits in though. He slows his movements and lets you pound your knuckles into his stomach. And then tells you to hit him harder. You’re pretty sure it hurts your hand more than him.

The last thing he does it shove you, pretty easily, backwards so you collapse on the couch next to your bag. You’re dripping with sweat and you hurt. Your butt and back feel bruised and your muscles are just flat out  _tired_. You let out a huff of air and let your head fall back while reaching for your water bottle you had pulled out before.

“I think that’s about all I can take today,” you admit, feeling like even speaking takes too much effort. Peter lets out an amused scoff.

“Giving up so soon?” he taunts. The bastard isn’t nearly as worked out as you, his wife beater free of sweat. You also hate the way that he’s able to do all of this with ease when he has tight jeans wrapped around him.

“Screw you,” you bite back. It just causes his lips to widen in his dark smile. You have to resist laughing yourself. He picks up a towel off the floor and tosses it at you. You’re not even sure if it’s his or yours. You don’t even care. He plops down on the other side of the couch.

“Regretting this yet?” He takes a drink out of his own water bottle. You close your eyes, satisfied he’s not going to sneak attack you.

“Nope.” You pop the P just for good measure. “How often are we doing this?”

“Depends how much you can handle.” You can hear the smugness in his voice and if you had the energy, you might have flipped him off.

“What do you recommend, oh wise trainer?” You don’t hide the mockery, hope it will combat the smugness of his. You don’t open your eyes, but you’re pretty sure he’s looking at you.

“Two to three times a week to start.” You try really hard not to groan, but you fail. Imagining your body feeling like this almost all the time, no time to recover between sessions, makes you ache.

“You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?” You open your eyes and roll your head to the side to look at him. He’s relaxed back on the couch and you were right. He’s staring at you.

“More like trying to save your life.” A settled silence falls between you two as both of you studying the other. He licks his lips slowly and he blinks down. When he looks back up, that same cocky glimmer is in his eyes. “You’ve got to hit me harder though.” A laugh bubbles out of you. You roll your head back and look at the ceiling. You feel him stand from the couch.

“As ridiculous as it is,” you scoff. “I’m afraid I’m going to hurt you.” He laughs at you and when a shadow falls over you, you see he’s standing in front of you. He extends one hand out to you.

“You’re not going to hurt me,” You reach out and smack your hand into his. He wraps his fingers around it and pulls you to stand up in front of him, snickering at how heavy you make yourself. “Trust me,” he says once you’re standing.

You feel like you should say something, but don’t know what to say. Trust Peter? It sounded odd, tasted funny on your tongue. But that’s exactly what you were doing. You were trusting Peter to teach you, to train you, to possibly save your life one day by extension. How did that happen exactly? 

“Apparently, I do,” you say softly before taking your hand back from his. “I should get going.” Peter nods and steps out of the way.

“Ice your wrists and your back,” he tells you. “You’re going to be sore.”

“You say that like I can’t already feel it.” You throw a smile his way and you’re surprised when he returns it genuinely. He watches silently as you gather your things back into your bag. You’re bent over the couch, stuffing everything in and you can feel him looking at you. You know damn well he’s not sizing you up this time, but it’s not making you uncomfortable anymore. “If I turn around and you throw something at me, I’m going to choke you.” A full laugh comes out of him.

“Noted,” he laughs. Your thankful that when you spin around, you don’t have to choke him. You throw your bag over your shoulder and walk towards the door. “Day after tomorrow?” he asks.

“I’ll see you then, Peter.”


	3. Bruises and Ice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter helps you take care of some of the bruises and the pain from your training sessions.

“I need two things,” you say right when he opens the door. You don’t wait for him to move this time. You simply walk towards him and shove his chest with your shoulder, letting yourself in. “So before you go all crazy and attack me before I even put my things down, I need two things from you.” Peter rolls his eyes.

“And what would that be, princess?” The way he says it makes your skin crawl and itch. As if you whatever you’re about to request is so selfish and absurd. You take a deep breath and just let it go. Better not to poke the beast that was going to be fighting you soon.

“First off, I want the code to the apartment gates,” you tell him. He raises an eyebrow at you as he shuts the door. “I’m tired of parking down the street and sneaking in through the hole in the fence.” He glances at the ground and smiles, silently chuckling at the image.

“I suppose that’s fair.” You can hear the hesitation is his voice, like he doesn’t want to give it to you, but has no real reason to keep it from you either. It makes you feel accomplished. “And what’s the second thing you need?

“Your phone number,” you state. Peter scoffs and starts walking towards the kitchen. You follow him, plopping your bag down on the floor.

“You don’t need my phone number,” he tells you gruffly. He opens the fridge and pulls out a bottle of water. “God knows what you’d do with it.” He leans back on the counter edge as he takes a long drink.

“I’m not going to harass you!” What? Did he think you were some little girl with a crush going to call him at all hours of the day just to hear his voice? His voice was not that appealing. “What happens if I need to cancel one day or I’m going to be late? Wouldn’t you like to know instead of me just not showing up?” He was being snappy with you and you’re returning the favor. If he wanted to be a dick, you could be a bitch. He stays quiet and glares at you. “What is your problem today?” You turn and walk away from him, back into the living room and to your bag.

It takes Peter a minute or so, but he does eventually follow you. He watches as you give your bag a gentle kick and send it to the side of the room, out of the way. You go to turn around and face him, but his hand is suddenly on your upper arm. It’s not a surprise attack, he’s simply holding you still, silently telling you not to move.

The fingers of his other hand trace along back top of your shoulder, making sure not to use any pressure as they flitter across the skin. It looked worse than it was. It didn’t hurt much, just looked awful. After being thrown to the ground multiple times, blood vessels had burst bubbling up in dozens of little red dots, forming a red mass on your shoulder. You let him run his fingers over it, examining it.

When his fingers hook under your tank top and bra straps, you can feel yourself stiffen, but you don’t pull away. He makes his movements gentle and slow as he pulls the straps off of your shoulder and down your arm. You hear him let out a heavy breath as he sees the broken blood vessels turn into a full blown purple and red bruise on your shoulder blade. When his fingers brush over it, you flinch.  _That_  one hurt a little.

His touch is soft, almost caring. His hand, still resting on your upper arm, gives a tender squeeze while the tips of his fingers circle around the bruise carefully. You can feel him move closer behind you, somehow feel his body heat sink into you. You feel exposed even though it’s just your shoulder out in the open. It’s something about him pushing down your straps, revealing bruised skin you tried to keep hidden. Something about it feels intimate.

He’s concerned. At least you think he is. He  _feels_  like he is. The way he’s examining you, the way his fingers touch you and his breathing changes; it all feels like he cares. You catch yourself closing your eyes for a second, letting yourself enjoy the light, feathery feel of his hands. You can tell he’s about to say something and in that split moment your mind wanders, imagines a dozen things he could say about how he was sorry and how he didn’t mean to. But when he does speak, he says none of those things.

“You need tougher skin,” he remarks coldly. His hands drop away from you. “And you need to learn how to ice yourself when you leave.” A rush of annoyance floods you. So much for caring and concerned.

“I did ice it,” you growl through clamped teeth. You tug your straps back up your shoulder since he rudely leaves it uncovered as he steps back.

“Not well enough, obviously.” You spin harshly to face him and he looks somewhere between insulted and bored.

“Why don’t we just get started?” you snap at him. Maybe hitting each other would actually calm both of you down. He blinks and when he opens his eyes, they’re blue.

“Fine, let’s go.”

–

He’s avoidant about your shoulder. He doesn’t go to grab it and doesn’t slam you into things as much and when he does, he makes sure your weight comes down on your other side. He’s still not taking it easy on you. Everything still hurts, even when you’re getting your punches in. You decide that even though he doesn’t go for the face doesn’t mean that you can’t and he ends up with another broken nose he has to reset quickly.

Both of your moods lighten. The banter and taunting becomes friendlier in nature and every once in a while one of you has a smile break out. It’s only an hour in when your energy starts to wane. Your body didn’t start out at a hundred percent power and it drained quickly. Your throws slow down and your strength fades when you try to push him away.

He charges you and instead of moving or trying to do anything, you put your hands out hoping he’ll get the idea and stop. Instead, your hands flatten against his chest and your arms bend as he runs into you, sending you both tumbling to the ground. The air gets knocked out of your lungs as he lands on top of you. There’s no way he fell with his full weight or you’d be crushed. His hands on either side of your head confirm that he took some of his weight during the fall.

“That’s it,” you sputter. “I’m tapping out. I’m done for today.” For no reason other than your briefly oxygen deprived brain told you to, you pat your hands against his chest. He chuckles above you and shifts his weight backwards onto his knees. He sits up, straddling you and you again blame your oxygen deprived brain for internally describing his chest with the clichéd adjective  _chiseled_. “Jesus,” you say out loud and roll your eyes at yourself. “Let me up, you brute.” His weight rests heavily on your thighs, pressing down on sore muscles. The pressure is somewhere between painful and pleasurable.

“You got slow today,” he comments as he shifts to his feet and stands up. You close your eyes and just lay on the floor.

“You’re running me into the ground,” you try to shout it, but you just don’t have the energy. It ends up being a half-hearted yell. “Quite literally I might add.” Your body just feels tired and sore, overworked. It’s not used to taking this much at once.

When you open your eyes, you see Peter’s hand extending out towards you, offering to help lift you up. Not in a position to deny help, you flop your arm into the air and somehow manage to grab his hand. He grips your forearm strongly, his hand large and warm. He hoists you off the ground easily making you barely have to do anything. It still hurts. Your legs feel like jell-o and they wobble a little bit. Peter puts his other hand flat on the middle of your back to steady you.

Once you’re steady again he says, “Go sit down in the kitchen.” You don’t even question him and just slowly make your way into his kitchen to plop on one of the chairs. Peter comes in from the other doorway a minute later with a small, clear bottle of thick, white liquid. He places it on the table and walks to his fridge.

You pick up the bottle. It has no label and it looks like a lotion. You’re tempted to pop the top and smell it, but decide against it. Peter returns with a soft icepack that he also puts on the table.

“What is this?” you ask, holding up the bottle as he moves to stand behind you. You turn your head to look at him and he plucks the bottle from your fingers, putting it back down.

“Learning to fight is one thing,” he starts, completely ignoring your question. “You need to learn how to take care of yourself afterwards if you want to keep going.” He hooks his fingers underneath your tank top and bra straps again and pulls them down a lot less gently than before. He presses the pad of his thumb into your bruised shoulder blade. You hiss and flinch and jerk away from him, but his thumb follows you, keeping pressure.

“Ow! Peter! What the hell?” You shout out, folding over at the waist, trying to escape. He pulls his thumb back finally.

“Just trying to see how bad it is,” he comments with the air of casualness that you’d just like to punch off his face one day. Your shoulder aches and you can feel the ghost of his thumb still there. “Stay still.” He uses his thumb again, but with a lot less pressure this time. He rolls it over the skin, pressing just a little harder when he reaches the outside of the bruise and lessening again when he comes back in. It feels almost pleasant. “Gentle massages help stimulate blood flow which help the bruise fade,” he explains, his thumb still making small circles around your shoulder. “Before you go to sleep, just rub it in gentle circles with your fingers or use the bristles of a hairbrush.” You find yourself chuckling.

“That’s an old hickey trick,” you laugh and look back at him with a raised eyebrow. He smirks at you.

“I know,” he says confidently. “Think I’ve never been with a human woman before?” He winks at you and there’s something so deviously flirtatious about it that it makes you turn away. His thumb stops massaging your skin and he reaches around you for the bottle. “This is an old, homemade salve. It’s what the product Arnica is based off of, but this is the original and much more powerful.” He opens the top and when he spreads some onto his hands, there’s a stinging smell that hits your nose.

“Oh,” you puff out involuntarily, your face scrunching up. “That’s… pungent.” He chuckles at you before spreading the salve onto your shoulder.

“It’s not made to smell pretty.” You’re not sure if it’s the salve or his hand that feels so warm, but your shoulder starts to heat up, the feeling spreading down your arm and up your neck. He smooths it gently into your skin, until it’s been soaked up and all that’s left is his calloused hand gently cupping your shoulder blade. “That will help the pain and the bruising.” You let yourself enjoy the warmth, the feel of your body relaxing and you swear you can already feel the soreness fading.

“You know a lot for a guy who heals instantly.” You catch yourself before you let out a sigh.

“Sometimes you don’t always heal,” Peter removes his hand and reaches around you again, grabbing the icepack. Without warning, he presses it firmly against your skin. With another hiss through your teeth, your spine straightens and a sharp cold prick shoots through you. “Hold this here,” he tells you as he molds it to hit your shoulder. “Always ice everything.” You have to bite back a sarcastic remark and reach your opposite hand up to hold the icepack.

Peter steps aside and grabs the salve bottle again, making it clear that it was  _not_  for you to take with you. You wonder if he’ll bring it out again for you at some point then. Or maybe he was just teasing you with it. You slouch down in the chair as much as you can.

“Keep that there,” he says as he moves towards the doorway. “I’m going to go change.”

He leaves the room and you consider removing the icepack. It’s cold and uncomfortable, but you can just imagine him knowing somehow and yelling at you from another room. He’d hear it or he’d have cameras set up he’d be watching from. Something. He’d know. So instead you stretch your legs out under the table and feel your muscles strain. God, you hurt.

Peter comes back in and the first thing you notice is the fact that his shirt is in his hand and not on his body. Alright, so maybe the dumb word  _chiseled_  floating into your brain couldn’t be blamed on just the lack of oxygen earlier. You were human. You noticed. Toned abs, muscled pecs, stupidly flawless skin. He may have been an asshole and a murderer, but that didn’t mean his body was hideous.

When your eyes drift up to finally meet his, you realize you were staring a little. He’s looking at you and he doesn’t even have to say it. The taunting sentence just hangs in the air between you.  _Like what you see?_ You draw your mouth into a thin, humorless line and look at him pointedly.

He walks forward and hands you a small piece of paper with numbers scribbled on it. You look up at him curiously.

“The code for the gate and my cell number,” he explains. “If you’re going to be late, call me.” He says it as though he was the one who came up with the idea. You take the paper and stuff it in your pocket.

Peter moves behind you again and puts his hand over yours, guiding you to remove the icepack from your shoulder. The coldness has made it slightly numb and when his fingers brush over the bruise, you barely feel them. His fingers trace down your arm and this time, he pulls the straps back up your shoulder. He places them back where they went before and runs his index finger underneath them, straightening them out.

“So what had your panties all in a twist when I got here?” you ask, trying to break the silence that starts looming. Peter steps away from you and finally puts his shirt on. It’s a long sleeved shirt that hangs loosely on his body. It’s probably the most relaxed and comfy you’ve ever seen him look.

“Just one frustrating call after another,” he says vaguely. “Make sure you ice when you get home.” You take that as your cue to make your exit. You stand slowly, body still aching, and walk out to the living room to collect your things.

“Calls with who?” you prompt. He’s been an ass all day and you’ve let him off the hook. It’s your turn to be annoying.

“The bank and my insurance company to start with.” He leans on the door frame as you pack your bag up.

“Oh.” It’s surprising. You had expected something much more intense, something more supernatural, not mundane everyday things. You forget sometimes that Peter may have been a werewolf who came back from the dead, but he still lived in the real world now. “That would put anyone in a bad mood.”

He doesn’t respond, simply watches you zip up your bag and throw it over your shoulder. You stand there unevenly under his gaze. His eyes linger on your body, eyeing you from your chest down to your thighs and back up. You wonder if this was what it was like for him earlier when you accidently ogled him.

“Well I certainly feel better now,” he drawls out when his eyes come back up to yours. You can feel a blush rising to your cheeks and you turn away to hide it. You’re not sure if you’re flustered because of the annoyance you feel or because of the embarrassment creeping into you. You walk yourself to the door.

“I’ll see you later, Peter.” You can’t help the light smile that brushes itself onto your lips.

“Don’t forget to ice,” he manages to slip in again before you walk out.


	4. Rumble and Sway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first pack meeting since you’ve started your training.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record… I have no idea where this takes place in the Teen Wolf “timeline.” So if there are parts that are inconsistent… like someone being alive when they shouldn’t be, just go with it. I also am not a big fan of this part. It just… it doesn’t flow like it should. It’s clunky. But I can’t figure out how to fix it.

_Can’t make it today. Pack meeting._ You shoot him a text right after you get off the phone with Stiles. Derek is calling a pack meeting and it starts a half hour after your training session with Peter was supposed to start which obviously meant you weren’t going to make it. You’re actually quite proud of yourself for asking for his number last time.  If you hadn’t, this would have been a lot more complicated.

You change out of your workout clothes and put on something a little more sociable before grabbing your keys and hopping in your car to drive to Derek’s.

–

You run to catch the elevator to the loft. You can see it starting to close and you know that if you don’t catch it, you’ll have to wait another five minutes for the old thing to come back down and get you. So you run and call out for whoever is in it to hold it for you.

You manage to slip in at the last moment, the doors brushing across your body as it closes behind you. Your momentum, and the unstable heels your ran in, throw you to the back of the elevator. You put your hands on the wall to brace your weight and there’s a dark chuckle besides you that’s all too familiar.

Your stomach drops before you even look up and see Peter standing there next to you. He’s looking ahead, watching the numbers light up above the door as the old elevator creaks to life.  _Of course_  it would be him. Honestly, you weren’t expecting to see him. He only attended these things every once in a while.

You close your eyes and try to breathe evenly. This would officially be the first time seeing the pack since you started training with Peter and as much as you told yourself you wouldn’t care if they found out, you really,  _really_  hope he doesn’t mention it just yet.

“Well don’t you look nice,” he drawls, eyes sliding to the side to look at you. “A little warm for long sleeves though, don’t you think?” You turn around and lean your back on the wall, still catching your breath from the short run and your aching body parts. “You’re not an abuse victim, you know.”

“I’d still prefer they not know yet,” you say, trying very hard not to look at him. “All they’d do is worry.” You can hear when he sidesteps closer to you.

“Why the skirt?” he asks, genuinely curious. You can feel his eyes roaming down, taking in the thigh length, flowy, black skirt you had slipped on earlier. You can’t help but laugh a little.

“Because my thighs are too sore to be constricted in jeans and all my sweatpants are in the laundry.” It’s the truth, as silly as it sounds. The elevator sputters as it rises up slowly. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see the edges of his lips tilt up into a soft smile. You shift your gaze towards him and for what is most likely the first time ever, you and Peter are smiling at each other. They’re real smiles that aren’t laced with stubbornness or arrogance. They’re actually friendly.

“Did you ice your shoulder?” he asks and nods his head towards your arm, seemingly unaware or uncaring about how strange the smiling is. You decide to brush past it as well and shrug your shoulder up.

“Used frozen peas,” He raises an eyebrow at you. “I didn’t have an icepack!” you defend yourself, still unable to resist the smile on your face. He looks up to the ceiling, shaking his head and giving you half an eye roll. A small laugh comes out of you and you reach out and smack the top of your palm against his chest. “Shut up.” He doesn’t stumble back, doesn’t even seem effected by your small, frail hit, but he looks back at you, his smile returning.

The elevator slowly shudders to a halt and dings at you. You both look towards the doors and it takes a moment for them to open. Peter looks back at you and motions his hands forward.

“Ladies first.” He smirks and waits for you to push yourself off the back wall and walk out. He follows behind you and you can feel his eyes on you. You wonder if he’s watching the way your skirt swishes or maybe he’s looking to see if you’re walking with any sort of limp. It’s a scary thought, but you’re growing accustomed to his eyes on you.

The door to the loft is open and most everyone else seems to be there already. Peter walks in after you, keeping a large enough gap between the two of you so that it doesn’t look like you are arriving together for which you’re silently thankful for.

Things are quiet and easy for a while. You gravitate towards the girls and Peter sits himself in his normal place on the shadowy stairs to observe everyone like a creeper. Lydia looks over your outfit and nods approvingly.

“Cute ensemble,” she comments, as she picks apart the details of your choice of clothes in her mind. When her eyes reach your knees, she stops and points quickly. “Not such a cute bruise,” she comments. You knew the bruise was visible and had prepared for it, but you still feel your heart speed up just a little.

“Oh, yeah,” you try to say casually while picking your leg up to show it off and examine it yourself. “I ran into the coffee table last night.” You have to resist the urge to look at Peter, to see if he’s listening or if he’s got a giant smirk on his face. “Looks worse than it is.” Allison hisses through her teeth when she looks at it.

“Ouch,” she says. “Be careful.” Just like that the subject’s gone and they’re back to talking about other things. You hate to admit you had a whole big explanation detailed in your mind for them if they were to ask questions. It was silly to think they would.

As they talk, you look around the room and see Derek staring at his uncle. Chancing a look at Peter, you see he’s not even paying attention to either of you. You excuse yourselves from the girls and approach Derek who doesn’t stop staring. You stand next to him and look out at the room.

“I don’t think he’s going to wolf out and attack us all right now,” you joke lightly with him. His stare breaks and he looks down at you and his face softens a little.

“Just curious why he’s here,” he says gruffly and crosses his arms over his chest.

“He comes every now and again, doesn’t he?” You bump your shoulder against his, trying to get him to lighten up a little bit. He’s been tense lately. You can understand why, but you wish he wouldn’t let the burden of everything weigh him down so much.

“Yeah, but I don’t remember telling him about this one.” Your stomach drops unpleasantly and you can feel your breathing hitch. You take a couple of deep breaths to try to keep your heart from speeding up.

“You…” You pause to swallow. “You didn’t tell him?” You hope Derek can’t tell how nervous you are.

“No. I didn’t think it pertained to him this time and I didn’t think he’d show up anyways.” You nod along, trying to seem casual about it, trying to hide the fact that  _you_  mentioned it and  _you’re_ the reason he’s here.

“Maybe Scott told him.” It was a feasibly idea. Derek may have called all the meetings, but Scott was technically the alpha. He could have, in a stretched out theory, contacted Peter. But you must have said it weird, given something away, because Derek knits his brows together as he looks at you. You try not to fidget.

“Yeah, maybe.” He doesn’t sound even the slightest bit convinced. He’s still looking at you, trying to figure out what’s wrong with this whole picture.

Thankfully, Stiles comes barreling in through the door, literally flailing and practically falling through the doorway in his rush to not be late. With an exaggerated sigh in Stiles’ direction, Derek starts gathering everyone together in the living room.

You don’t fail to notice the way Derek lifts a questioning eyebrow at his uncle when he leaves his spot on the stairs and takes a seat in one of the chairs amongst everyone else. Peter is nonchalant about it and doesn’t even return a look so Derek keeps his mouth shut and continues on. You pick a seat far away from Peter and try very hard not to look at him the whole time.

The meeting itself is dull, nothing you didn’t already know. There’s a point where everyone stops listening and slowly, one by one, everyone stands and starts breaking off. Stiles goes first, pacing around, but still involved in the conversation. Lydia rolls her eyes at one point and ventures off into the kitchen. Allison soon follows. It’s a full half hour in before actual pack meetings things are forgotten about and it’s turned into a social event.

Soon, you find yourself standing by Peter who’s still sitting in his chair, arms casually resting on the armrests. You had been talking to Stiles as he paced and gotten up to stand closer to him. When he walked away, he left you standing awkwardly next to Peter. You’re standing at the corner of his chair, facing him and trying not to look at him.

No one is paying attention, but you feel like if you even acknowledge Peter’s presence, someone will suddenly notice and if you move away too quickly, you’re sure someone will notice too. You can see him smirking at you, can feel the enjoyment he gets out of you feeling awkward. You cross your arms over your chest and pretend to look at a map on a wall.

You honestly don’t know if you’re shifting your weight in your uncomfortable state or if he reaches his fingers out towards you, but the tips of his knuckles barely brush against your knee. Your body jumps just a little at the unexpected contact, causing a small, almost silent chuckle to roll out of him. Afraid of jumping away and attracting attention, and maybe a little out of enjoying the hot rush flooding you, you don’t back away. He absentmindedly lifts his hand and the brush of his knuckles turns into the touch of his fingers. He circles the tips of them around the bruise gently.

“Your coffee table?” he questions, the humor evident in his voice, the look on his face silently asking,  _Is that the best you came up with?_

“Not all of us can see in the dark,” you quip at him. He lets out a small huff of a laugh that could almost be mistaken as a scoff. He keeps circling your knee, fingers tracing the same path over and over, sending small tingles through you. It reminds you of someone using their finger to write on your back, a pleasurable sensation, even comforting.

“Peter!” Derek barks across the room. The circles on your knee stop and his fingers slowly retract. “Come here for a second.” You look back and Derek’s face isn’t soft. It’s pointed and serious, not hiding very well that he wants his uncle away from you. Peter shrugs at you before pushing himself off the chair and walking away. You watch as Derek glares at Peter and pulls him aside.

–

Peter kept his distance the rest of the time and even left before you, so you’re pretty surprised when you find him leaning against your car. Curious, wary, and dare you say a little excited, you walk up to him with a smug smile.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” He doesn’t miss the fact that you’re mocking what he had said to you when you first showed up on his doorstep. He simply smirks back at you and ignores it.

“Tomorrow work for you?” he asks casually. The confused look on your face lets him know you have no idea what he’s referencing. “Training got postponed due to the useless pack get together. So does tomorrow work for you instead?” 

“Oh! Yeah, that shouldn’t be a problem,” you tell him. He nods and pushes himself off of your car, allowing you access to the driver’s door. You consider asking about him showing up today, about if you were the one who accidentally told him it was happening. You decide not to bother with it. “I’ll see you tomorrow then?” You open the door and move to stand between the car and the door before turning to face him.

“My nephew seems to be very protective of you.” He completely changes the subject. You can’t help but roll your eyes, something you seem to do a lot of around him.

“Derek’s a good friend, of course he’s protective,” you explain. It was one of the reasons you didn’t want to tell anyone. Derek would have a fit and try to lock you in a room to keep you safe.

“Anything between you two?” Blunt as always with him. You let out a scoff.

“No way.” You watch as his head tilts just slightly and his eyes narrow just a hair. You’ve come to recognize that look on werewolves. He’s listening. “Trying to see if I’m lying?” you question him. “Why do you care so much?”

“Just trying to keep up,” he says offhandedly. You’re honestly not sure if you’re flattered or rubbed the wrong way by him taking an interest. You shake your head and toss your keys into the car.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Peter,” you tell him firmly, effectively ending any conversation he wants to have. He smirks at you one more time.

“You can wear the skirt if you want.” His voice is low and that is one step too far for you. You put your mouth into a thin line before pursing it at him and glaring. “Just an option.” He pushes himself off your car and starts walking away.

You watch him walk away and wonder to yourself what exactly you think of him now. You had never been a fan of his. He was an ass, a callous jerk who murdered a lot of people. He still is all of those things. And yet you could share friendly smiles and you had let him trace over your knee in the middle of Derek’s living room.

You still don’t like him. He makes inappropriate comments and stares too long. The only reason he touched you was to push the boundaries, to see how far he could go. He’s selfish. He’s blunt. He doesn’t make good conversation. The only good thing about him is that he can help train you. So you climb into your car, reminding yourself how much all of those things matter and why you don’t like Peter Hale.

It isn’t until that night when you’re sitting on your bed, bag of peas resting on your knee and staring at your phone, contemplating sending him a picture of the frozen bag slowly soaking your sheets, that you admit maybe you don’t dislike him as much as you try to convince yourself you do.


	5. If I Know You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter has something different in mind for this training session.

It takes Peter a few minutes to open the door when you knock. You stand outside impatiently tapping your foot and consider knocking again. When he finally opens the door, he’s in jeans. And that’s it.

You have to stop yourself from gawking at his bare chest. Little rivulets of water are beading down his skin and it takes you a moment to realize he has a towel in his hand and is currently ruffling through his hair. You make the easy assumption he was in the shower.

“You’re early,” he comments. There’s little tone to it. He’s not upset nor impressed by it, just simply stating the fact, making sure you’re aware of it.

“Only by a few minutes.” You say it more defensively than you mean to. Really, the whole situation threw you off. “Is that a problem?” You try to sound a little less hostile that time.

“Not at all.” He steps to the side and opens the door for you. As you walk by him, you can smell his soap fresh on his skin; something with pine. You try not to like it. 

To add to your confusion of why he took a shower  _before_  training, when you walk into the living room, it’s not arranged right. The middle of the floor doesn’t form a ring anymore. The couch and coffee table and all his furniture is in their original spots, making the place look like a home again. Your brows knit together and you practically whip your body around to look at Peter as he shuts the door.

“We’re not sparring today,” he says casually. You look at him in disbelief, eyes and mouth open wide. He chuckles at you as he finishes ruffling his hair and walking towards the kitchen. “Told you that you could have worn the skirt.” He flashes you a wink and you curse the way it flusters you. You drop your bag and follow him.

“And why not?” You let the hostility through in your voice this time. Why the hell were you even here if he wasn’t going to train you? He doesn’t seem to be bothered by your tone at all. He reaches into a cabinet and pulls out two coffee cups.

“Your body needs a day of rest,” he tells you, turning his back to you and pouring coffee into the cups.

“I don’t need rest!” You’re a little offended by it. Did he think you were weak? That you couldn’t handle the soreness and the bruises? “I need to keep training!” You rush up to him, unsure of what good it would do, but the simple fact of being closer to him and yelling at him feeling satisfying enough. “The real world doesn’t just pause when I’m tired and hurting. I need to keep going! Isn’t that your job? To teach me how to keep going, to keep fighting?” You know you sound somewhere between an angry woman and a whining teenager, but you can’t help it. You’re  _frustrated_. The asshole doesn’t even turn to look at you. “Peter!” Your hand reaches up and grabs his bare shoulder, spinning him towards you. Your other fists rises up to his chest, moving to strike him, to execute a move he’d shown you the previous session, to try to start a sparring match yourself.

He catches your fist easily and squeezes it in his hand. His hand grabs your other wrists and rips it off his shoulder, pinning it by your side. His eyes are stony and his jaw grinds. He didn’t approve of your actions. 

“You need to rest,” he growls out. “Your body needs time to recoup and heal. If we run you down to empty now, what happens if something  _does_  come up?” You can feel the heat from his body, his chest close to yours. He stares down at you and you can feel your glare start to melt away. He isn’t wrong. “You’re bruised and sore. Your muscles are tired. Your reactions are slow. You probably aren’t sleeping well and if I know you well enough, you’re popping Advil like it’s candy.” Your eyes shift to the side, not wanting to look at him. You didn’t want to admit to any of it. His hands release you and you realize his grip had been gentle the whole time. “You’re resting today.” His words are final and clear. You know there’s no arguing past it now. He nods his head to the side. “Now go sit down.”

You slink away, trying to keep your head high and the pout off your face. You plunk yourself down at his kitchen table and slouch down. You can feel the light throb when the back of the seat hits your shoulder, but don’t move simply out of spite. Peter finishes with the coffee and comes over handing you a cup.

You reach out and take it from him, defiance still written along your face. It tastes good. It’s warm and comforting and it makes you relax. Peter takes a large gulp of his own and you’ll deny it later, but you watch the way his throat constricts when he swallows.

“Go put a shirt on,” you remark bitterly. He doesn’t need to be parading around shirtless. If you were sparring, maybe you’d let it pass, but right now? You don’t need to look at his stupid body. He smirks at you as if he’s won at something. You narrow your eyes and sip your coffee.

“As you wish,” he says sarcastically. He puts his cup on the table and disappears to find a shirt. You roll your eyes just to make yourself feel better when he leaves. You continue drinking your coffee and let your eyes wander the kitchen. They fall onto his coffee cup for some reason and you watch the black liquid settling inside. You mentally stick your tongue out in disgust. Black coffee tastes awful to you.

A realization hits you and you look down into your own cup. It’s definitely not black. It has just the right amount of cream and sugar to make it taste heavenly to you. And Peter had made it.  _If I know you well enough._  His words echo in the recesses of your mind. Just how much attention did he pay to you? You try not to read too much into it. Peter is an observer. He probably knew dozens of little facts about everyone. But still…

Your finger starts circling the rim of your cup, considering it. You’d only made coffee in front of him once, the first time you came over. Was it stalker-ish or sweet that he seemed to take note of how you made it? You admit, it would probably be more stalker-ish and off-putting if it was only the coffee. But it wasn’t. It was the combined with the fact he seemed to know you, that he insisted you rest and take care of yourself. It was like he actually cared a little somehow.

“Is the coffee alright?” he asks from the doorway, startling you slightly. You look up and back down at the coffee you were staring at.

“Oh, yeah.” You take your hand of the rim of the cup and can’t resist a small smile when you look back at him. “It’s perfect.” You say if softly, silently telling him you know he made it the way you like, that it’s appreciated. If he gets the message, he doesn’t give it away. He just nods and comes back to the table to drink his own.

There are a few moments of silence where you both simply watch each other. Your smile slowly fades into a soft, friendly look and he knits his brows at you. You briefly wonder what he’s thinking, but decide it’s probably better if you didn’t know. You take another drink of your coffee, feeling it warm your body, and try to get back to business.

“So if we aren’t sparring, what are we doing today?” you ask as you put your cup down. His eyes practically twinkle with something evil as his lips form a thin smile. He stands and goes to open his freezer. You can’t see what he’s doing, but you hear the rustling of bags and ice and you know you’re not going to like this.

“The coffee’s to keep you warm,” he throws over his shoulder. He comes back, arms loaded with icepacks and ziplock bags of ice. He tosses them down on the table in front of you and you stare in disbelief.

“You want me to cover myself in ice?” Your tone is even and hard. This is  _not_  what you want to do today. You’d been good! You’d iced yourself every night. Why do you have to suffer through more?

“I thought filling the bathtub with ice might be pushing it, so yes.” You can easily see he takes great joy and amusement in this situation. You bite your tongue between your side teeth and glare at him. A wide smirk appears on his face and he raises one finger. “Oh, I almost forgot.” He turns back and opens the freezer one more time. When he comes back, he throws a frozen bag of peas on top of the pile. “To make you feel at home.” You can’t help it. You let out a laugh and shake your head. He really paid a lot more attention than you ever thought he did.

–

It’s not long after that he gets you situated on his couch. It’s the first time you’ve sat on the expensive leather and you feel like you’re sitting on eggshells, as if when you move, you’re going to break it somehow. The thought of icepacks melting on it actually makes you physically uncomfortable, but Peter pays it no attention.

After telling you to take off your shoes, he props your feet up on a pillow on the coffee table. He waits for you to get comfortable and then starts putting icepacks on you. One on the small of your back. One behind your shoulder. One around your neck. One under each thigh. One strapped to your left arm. And the bag of pees resting humorously on your knee.

“I’m officially cold,” you announce. The icepacks all send sharp chills through your body which eventually turn into a numbing coolness that spreads on your skin. You make sure to keep still, not wanting to shift the packs and need to have them repositioned again. Peter hands you a fresh cup of hot coffee and you take it with your free hand. He then ventures to the closet and pulls out a thick blanket. He shakes it open and lays it over your legs, letting you adjust it how you like. “Thanks.” Peter sits himself next to you and you can feel the couch dip with his weight.

“After a while of this, I’ll put some of that salve on you again,” he tells you. You drink your coffee, trying to suppress the shivers starting in your body.

“If I’m not a popsicle by then,” you joke. He lets out a small chuckle underneath his breath and you laugh into your coffee, enjoying the way your breath forces the hot steam onto your face. You look out across the living room and realize there’s no TV. “So what do you do all day?” you ask him once you lower your cup. You doubt he has a job. You just don’t see Peter as the working type. In the back of your mind you just kind of assumed he sat in the dark and waited creepily for something bad to happen.

“I read quite a bit,” he says. “I cook often, work out, check in on my nephew.” He shrugs and looks around his place thoughtfully.

“Do you date?” The second the words leave your mouth, you feel hot and flushed. You spoke before you thought. You didn’t mean to ask and you have no idea why you would ask. You blame the ice for slowing down your brain speed. His head turns to look at you with a curious look. Your mouth flops open and you try to recover. “Sorry, that was a personal question.” You look away and hope the icepacks are preventing your body from letting blood rush to your cheeks. 

“Not recently,” he answers smoothly, seemingly ignoring your little internal freak-out. You can feel him still looking at you. “Been a little distracted lately.” He says it low, quiet, like there’s something more hidden in his words he’s hinting at. You refuse to read into it and just blow past it.

“I can understand that,” you comment, nodding your head. “Hard to date when you’ve got supernatural creatures trying to kill you and your family all the time.” He lets out a light scoff.

“You could say that.” He finally looks away from you and you feel both lightened and tensed by it. A part of you somewhere wanted to keep that conversation going, but again, you wouldn’t let it.

“What do you read?” You change the subject quickly, hoping it doesn’t come off as jarring. Peter leans back into the couch.

“A little bit of everything. I’ve got a small library in my study.” His words are laced with ego and pride, already knowing the reaction he’d get out of you once he said it. 

“A library?” you ask, completely intrigued and curious. You’re also slightly offended he hadn’t mentioned it before.

“Just a small one,” he says. “Nothing like the one that I used to have at the Hale House.” He settles deeper into the couch and leans his head back. He’s teasing you.

“Are you going to be a good host and show it to me or do I have to go hunting through your apartment by myself?” You start to remove your blanket and sit up, no longer caring about the icepacks that are wedged behind you. Peter smiles, clearly satisfied with himself.

“You need to ice everything.” He leans over and repositions the icepacks, gently pushing on your shoulder to push you back onto them. “Give it another ten minutes and then I’ll take you to it.”

“Fine,” you pout and settle back into the couch. You don’t fail to notice that in Peter’s shuffle to put the ice back, he’s moved closer and is now sitting mere inches away from you. You thought you’d feel more awkward being close to him, but it feels almost natural. You were physically close all the time when you sparred. The feeling of being near him apparently transferred over into your non-training lives.

You wait impatiently for the ten minutes to pass, body getting colder as the seconds tick away. Peter and you talk about your bruises. He actually gives you some verbal pointers on how to avoid putting so much pressure on certain areas when you hit the ground. He promises that the next time you have a physical session that he’ll show you exactly what he means. You’re not sure if you’ve passed the full ten minutes or not, but you break.

“Okay, I can’t feel half my body,” you complain with a small laugh. “Can I get up now?” Peter rolls his eyes halfheartedly and sits up.

“Alright,” he sighs and reaches to start removing the icepacks. Each one peels off of your body and you swear they formed a seal that broke, releasing cooling tingles that radiate through the air. Peter places them one by one on the coffee table. He stands up first and extends his hand out to you. “Go slow.” You stretch your body out, feeling it ache and practically crack as if your body  _had_  been turned to ice.

You sit up slowly and reach out to take his hand. His fingers wrap around you firmly and he flexes his muscles, making his hand a steady platform for you to pull yourself up on. Your legs are slightly shaky as you stand and he gives you the extra support to plant your feet into the ground. His other hand comes to your upper arm where the icepack had been strapped. The warmth of his skin feels foreign on the frozen surface of your body. It’s hard not to sink into it.

Peter lets you stabilize and runs his thumb across your hand. You find yourself not wanting to let go of him even though you feel secure enough to stand on your own. You chance a look up at him and he’s staring down at you with soft eyes. There’s no humor or malice in them. The softness looks good on him.

He tilts his chin up and motions it to the side towards a back doorway. He turns and for just a moment, you think he might keep his hold on your hand as he leads you. He doesn’t though. He lets go of your hand, but not until after he’s turned, like he’s waited until the last moment to let you go. 

You follow him down the hall and through a door on the right. You can see another door on the right and assume it’s his bedroom. It surprises you how much you want to pop your head in just to see what it looks like. The nagging curiosity is replaced when you walk into his study.

It’s not a particularly large room, but it’s made even smaller by the thick, wooden bookshelves that line all the walls. If it the room has windows, they’re covered up. Only the door remains untouched by books. The yellow light hanging from the ceiling is enough to illuminate the room though. The only furniture is in the middle of the floor; an old desk with a laptop along with a dark emerald, cushy chair.

Peter strides in and stops at the desk, turning back to face you and leaning his lower half back on it. He watches you as you look around in wonder. All sorts of books line his shelves. Everything from fiction to dictionaries, Old English to Latin, are scattered amongst the room. At first glance you can’t tell if he has any sort of order or if he just threw everything on there randomly. You let your fingers brush the spines of books as you make a circle around the room.

“This is impressive,” you admit as you finish making your first lap. Peter is practically beaming with pride, chest puffed out and cocky smile on his face. “You’ve got a lot of good books here.”

“You’re welcome to borrow anything if you want,” he offers. You look at him a little surprised.

“You’d trust me with your books?” you ask skeptically. Peter chuckles and pushes himself off the desk, walking up to you.

“You, yes.” He stands in front of you and looks through the books on the shelf. “Someone like Stiles though, for example, I wouldn’t let anywhere near here.” His voice is low again and he’s standing closer than you thought he would. You wonder if you should step back, but decide not to. You decided a long time ago you wouldn’t back down from Peter and that wasn’t changing. “I could even make some recommendations for you.” His eyes come down from the books and land on yours.

“That would be nice.” You smile at him and he nods slowly.

“For now though, I want to get that salve on you.” His hand reaches around to the back of your shoulder and brushes against the bruise, still cold from the ice. A little shiver runs down your spine when his fingers brush from your shoulder down your arm. “You can rifle through my library another time.”

Peter leads you back down the hall and into the kitchen where he tells you to sit down again. You take your place on the kitchen chair and to make things easier (and if you were honest, because you’re not sure how you’d handle him doing it right now) you push your tank top and bra straps down your shoulder yourself.

You don’t hear him open the bottle, but you definitely smell it. Your nose scrunches up and you widen your eyes, trying to stop them from watering. Peter chuckles at you before applying the salve. It’s soothing and you imagine the bruise visibly fading away as he makes little circles around it. He rubs it until it’s in and then backs away, allowing you to return your straps to your shoulder.

Before you can move to stand and to thank him, he’s come around to the front of you and bent down at his knees. He grabs your pants at the ankle and starts sliding the pant leg up. The quick thought of if you shaved your legs recently enough flashes across your mind as you feel his hands against the skin of your shin. He pushes the pant up over your knee, revealing the bruise there.

He’s gentle about applying the salve to your knee. He rubs in the circles and then starts massaging the kneecap, molding his fingers into the soft spots between bones. You’re amazed at how good it feels. It’s a strange mix of the remaining cool of the ice, the warmth of the salve, and the pressure of his fingers. You find yourself closing your eyes and enjoying it.

The salve is completely absorbed in your skin, but his fingers keep massaging you. They travel from your knee down your shin and to your calf. You can’t ignore the way your heart seems to pause and beat almost erratically for a few moments before it relaxes. He squeezes your tight muscles and pressing the heel of his palm into them. He travels back up to the knee and slowly tugs the pant leg back down.

“You should think about getting a massage,” he says. His voice is coarse and he swallows. “It will help ease the muscle aches.” Your eyes and still closed, recovering from the good feeling.

“Maybe I should just hire you,” you tease. Another one of those speaking before you think moments. Your eyes open and you start to flush. Peter just chuckles and stands himself up.

“I don’t think you could afford me,” he teases back. It puts you at ease and you’re able to smile back at him. He moves to the counter and pours you one more cup of coffee.

He still prepares it just the way you like and you find yourself drinking it slowly, savoring the taste and the warmth. You and Peter chat a little, mostly about books and the fact that he’s been hiding a library. The conversation is casual and nice. When you find your mug empty, you find yourself not wanting to say your next words.

“Well, I guess I should be going.” You check the clock and are surprised to find you’ve been there for over an hour. Without sparring, you assumed you wouldn’t have stayed that long, but you had. Peter nods his head. 

“You could do that,” he agrees. You move to stand up and reach out for his mug. He hands it to you and you carry them both to the sink to rinse them out. You look out the window and watch the sun start to set. You hear Peter walk up behind you. “Or you could stay for dinner.”

You weren’t expecting the offer at all. You dry your hands and turn around, considering it. Dinner with Peter Hale? It didn’t sound like a good idea. He’s gazing at you patiently, waiting for you to answer.

“That sounds nice.”


	6. Staying Safe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek catches on that there’s something you’re not telling him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I seriously have no timeline for this. I originally was thinking before the Alpha pack showed up, but I already mentioned Scott as the Alpha so that’s not right… Basically while making this part I decided to diverge from canon completely and create my own season since it’s not crucial to the point of the whole story. Hopefully it doesn’t suck though.

It’s been a few days since Peter cooked you dinner. The evening was light and casual, friendly. He didn’t poison you and you talked all throughout the evening. By the end of the night, as he was walking you to the door, you were actually wondering if you and Peter were friends now. You didn’t exactly convince yourself one way or another.

You had both agreed you still needed a few days to rest so you hadn’t set up an exact day for your next training sessions. You were actually staring at your phone, trying to talk yourself into and out of texting him at the same time when a message from Derek came through asking you to meet the pack at Deaton’s. You made a mental note this time not to mention it to Peter.

You walk into the clinic to find the front room empty. Used to this kind of thing, you let yourself in and walk around the counter to the back room to find most of the pack there gathered around one of Deaton’s metal examination tables, grim and confused expressions on their faces. Derek gives you a nod, motioning for you to join them.

You squeeze yourself in between Derek and Stiles and follow their eyes to the table where a single claw sits. It’s big, nearly the size of your hand.

“That’s no werewolf claw, right?” you question, just to be sure. When no one contests you, you ask, “What the hell is it?”

“A Cerberus claw,” Deaton answers, walking in from a back door, a folder open in his hands. “According to what I’ve found at least.”

“Cerberus. Like the three headed dog that guards hell?” Stiles’ voice is high and he nods quickly. “Why not?” The rest of the group practically groans. Everyone is done with new creatures and more deaths. “So we have Satan himself coming to Beacon Hills now?”

“Not quite.” You can tell Deaton is resisting a small smile, the idea completely absurd to him. “Cerberus’ are often kept as pets and guard dogs. They’re not flesh and bone, but more spirit-like in nature. My guess would be someone summoned one and is keeping it.”

“And no one just noticed a giant three-headed dog prancing down the street?” Stiles beats you to the question, your eyes still examining the claw. Black, thick, and pointed. The mere sight of it made you itch to get back to Peter and train more.

“They can look like any dog,” Derek answers, obviously fighting the urge to roll his eyes and gag Stiles. There’s a reason your natural place is in between them. “Spirit-like means they can change their form.” The unspoken  _idiot_  very clear at the end of his sentence. You pat Derek’s arm, your teasing sign for  _Down boy_.

“Anyone missing?” Scott asks. “Felt anything strange lately, Lydia?” She shakes her head no and shrugs.

“I haven’t heard of anyone,” Deaton offers up, closing his folder and passing it to Derek to examine.

“Nothing’s turned up on the scanners lately,” Stiles confirms. Something in the air suddenly moves behind you. You plant your feet into the ground and try not to turn and look, telling yourself not to be so paranoid.

“So technically there’s nothing to worry about yet.” Scott’s eyes widen, a little bit of hope filling them. “I mean someone could just have it as a normal pet right now, right?”

“Technically.” The voice comes from directly behind you, filled with dark humor and scaring the hell out of you. Out of pure instinct, when your body jolts, you whip yourself around, one hand balling into a fist and the other pulling a knife from your belt.

Strong hands catch your fist and the wrist holding the knife, fingers curling over your knuckles and stopping your swinging weapon. The rest of the table stares at you with wide eyes and open mouths. Your jumpiness was not new. Pulling a knife was.

When your eyes catch up to the rest of you and the adrenaline spike edges off, your brain lets you see that it’s Peter holding onto you. He eyes the knife and then looks back at you, mouth straight-lined, but eyes smirking with approval. Your body instantly relaxes and you actually have to resist the urge to laugh.

“And to think you were one of the only ones who hadn’t tried to kill me yet,” he teases, lowering your hands down and away from his face.

“Don’t scare me like that!” you yell at him, trying to throw some genuine anger behind it and failing. “Were you hear the whole time?”

“Yeah, he was doing the creepy, lurk in the shadows thing.” Stiles says, rubbing the back of his head. He points between you two. “That was uhhh… kind of awesome.” You can hear the girls make sounds of approval and agreeance behind you. You realize Peter is still holding onto your hands and you’re very aware of the fact that Derek is staring at you. 

“Didn’t know you kept a knife on you,” Derek says, calculatedly. You shake your hands away from Peter and turn back around to face the table.

“It’s new,” you answer honestly. Peter had once mentioned how you should probably have some kind of small weapon on you. You had brushed him off, but recently you thought you’d try it. Now you nearly stabbed him so… it had its ups and downs so far.

Derek’s about to open his mouth, about to question it further when Peter interrupts him. “Technically, it may not be a problem yet.” He turns the conversation back to the claw, looking past your shoulder at Scott. “But let’s not let that stop us from being ready, shall we?” He steps up closer behind you and you can almost feel his chest on your back. The position is familiar and actually comforting. Having him there is starting to slow your heartbeat back down a normal level. “We should keep an eye out.” His voice is low and you can feel his breath against your skin. You look around the table and no one seems to notice. No one except Derek.

“Trust me, I am,” he growls besides you. Irritation and distrust are flooding his face. Peter smirks.

Stiles, oblivious to the tension stirring between the two Hales, claps his hands together and declares, “Alright. So be on the lookout for dogs and dead bodies. Just another day in Beacon Hills.” Everyone seems to shrug solemnly and start to move away from the table, leaving the claw for Deaton to store. 

Peter steps back, allowing you space to move. He swipes the claw off the table and starts to walk with Deaton into another back room. When you push your hands off the table and start to move away, Derek reaches out to hold your forearm.

“What’s going on?” The question is genuine, concerned. You nod.

“Nothing,” you tell him, trying to hold your head up high. “I just started carrying a knife around. In case, you know, giant dogs from hell show up,” you try to joke with him. His eyes keep staring at you and it’s starting to make you feel guilty. 

“There’s nothing happening between you and Peter?” He’s blunt about it. If you say no, are you lying? You wonder how many times your heart has skipped, if Derek can hear the blood pumping quickly in your veins. You wait too long to answer. “You can’t trust him.”

You wonder to yourself if this is the part of the movie where the best friend tries to tell the protagonist something obvious, something the whole audience has been screaming from the start. If this was the overall, overbearing truth and you’re just too far gone to realize it. If that sinking feeling in your gut, the one pulling you towards Peter is just stubbornness and defiance and a twisted sense of hope. If it’s all going to come back and bite you in the ass.

You let your arm fall from Derek’s hand and give him a gentle smile, playing it off.

“There’s nothing going on between me and Peter.” Dammit if you didn’t  _feel_  your heart jump when you said it. “Everything’s fine.” That one was honest, but the guilt still rises up. You owe him more than that. “I guess I’ve talked to him a little more lately,” you admit. “But I promise, everything is okay.” Derek looks you up and down, no doubt looking for more bruising, for more signs, for anything. He sighs.

“Just be careful,” he tells you, face losing its hard edge. You smile at him and reach out to squeeze his hand. You both know that he knows there’s something you’re not telling him, but he’s not pushing it. You smile is a silent thank you to him for that.

“Well aren’t we touching,” Peter drawls from the doorway. Derek lets out another low growl and then turns to face his uncle. Peter’s smirk is wide, knowing, even cocky. You wonder how long he was listening. “Hope I’m not interrupting.”

“I was just about to leave,” you offer, throwing your thumb towards the door. “I’ll see you guys later.” You rush yourself out the front door into the front office. Curiosity gets to you when neither of them follow you out. You press your back against the wall by the door and listen.

“Stay away from her,” Derek warns. Peter openly scoffs, knowing that’s not going to happen. “She’s a good person and I don’t know what the hell you’re doing with her, but knock it off.”

“Afraid I’m going to corrupt her?” Peter chuckles.

“If you get her hurt-”

“Oh c’mon Derek!” Peter cuts him off immediately, voice filled with something that could either be humor or insult. “I’m not going to hurt her!” Derek says nothing for a moment. “I actually don’t mind her.”

“That’s what worries me.” There’s a small scuffle of noises and a grunt of frustration, like one of them tried to walk away and the other wouldn’t let them.

“I’m  _not_  going to hurt her.” Peter’s serious voice breaks out, low and husky, a thin layer of anger. “In fact, I’m doing the exact opposite. While the rest of you are off screwing around and taking care of yourselves,  _I’m_  making sure she’s safe.” There’s something about the way he says it, something that brings up that nagging sensation in your gut; the fluttery discomfort you’ve been trying to get rid of. It sounds like he cares. And that thought does things to you that you never suspected it would.

“Stay away from her,” Derek repeats. A pause fills the air. You have no idea if they’re staring each other down or if they’ve even walked away. You’re about to leave when Peter’s voice comes through, the smirk and smugness bright and clear.

“Did you ever think maybe she came to me?” Derek doesn’t respond. You can hear his shoes stomp on the tile as he walks away, Peter softly chuckling. You push yourself off the wall and sneak out the front door.

–

You admit to fiddling around with your keys longer than you need to, that you check your phone a few too many times, pretend to respond to nonexistent texts and read nonexistent emails. You’ve got the front door open and you’re standing between it and the interior of your car, trying to find more reasons not to get in.

Peter walks up behind you, saving you from having to wait any longer. His boots crunch on the gravel and you think he might be stepping and digging his toes in to make a little extra noise for your benefit. Or to tease you. Either is possible.

Just for good measure, you pretend to finish reading a message before putting your phone down and turning to face him. He walks up to you and puts out his hand. 

“Let me see it,” he says, an amused look sitting on his face. You don’t argue, just pull the knife from your belt and place the handle in his hand. He toys with it, holds the blade up to the sun and examines it. “I’ll get you a better one.” He smiles as he hands it back to you. You give him a halfhearted scoff and slip it back in place. “Free tomorrow?”

“I am,” you tell him, leaning one arm on your car door.

“Meet me at our old house. Bring lots of water.” You stare at him confused.

“In the woods?” you question. Peter nods and looks down your body, sizing you up much like he had at the start. 

“If there’s a guardian of hell running around this town, we’re changing our defense tactics.” He tries to sound lighthearted, but there’s a seriousness weaved into it.

“To what?” A slight breeze blows in the air and kicks up your hair. Peter reaches up and brushes a strand away from your mouth. He swipes it back behind your ear and his fingers trail down your jaw before dropping back down.

“Running for your life,” he answers quietly. You don’t like the sound of that. Running has always seemed like a last resort for everyone, the thing you do when you can’t do anything else. The whole point of training was so that you didn’t have to run. You don’t press it though. The look on his face is enough to keep you silent.

“Tomorrow then,” you agree. He slides his hands into his pockets and steps back.

“Your reflexes are improving,” he compliments. You let the smile tilt your lips.

“Try not to come out of any dark corners again, would you?” you tease. He smiles back at you and shrugs one of his shoulders. You both stand there for a moment smiling at each other. It certainly feels like you’re some kind of friends in this moment. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Peter.” You push yourself off your door and start to make the motions of leaving.

“Tomorrow.” He steps back enough for you to lean down into your car. You reach for the car door, giving him one more smile. As you pull your arm to close it, his hand slaps down on the frame, holding it in place for a moment. “You lied to Derek,” he states. You freeze, feeling like you’ve been caught even though you hadn’t done anything. “There’s at least a little something going on here.” He winks and you can feel yourself start to blush. You take a deep breath and try to suppress it. You throw on your best uncaring face.

“Whatever you say, Hale.” You give another pull on your door and he lets you close it, smirk still playing on his lips. He watches as you pull out of the animal clinic and drive off down the street. The flutters start to kick up again. How far would this little something go?


	7. Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Peter have your first cardio session, which you don’t take as seriously as he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a much different turn than I expected it to. But I think I like it…Maybe. I’m not really sure.

It’s starting to get colder, fall creeping its way into the air. Everything feels crisp and dingy, leaves turning to deadened color, somehow missing the memo they were supposed to be shades of yellow and red and brown before falling ugly and crunchy. The breeze sweeps through your leggings and chills your legs. You hug your coat tighter to your body as you make your way to the old Hale House.

It still looks abandoned and creepy, paint chipped and faded, walls missing, the scars of the fire still blatantly obvious in its dilapidated structure. It wasn’t on the verge of collapse or anything, but it was rickety to say the least. You didn’t see any signs of Peter so you entered through the open front door.

It’s dim and dreary inside, leaves having blown in over the years and scattered over the floorboards. The wood creaks underneath your feet and the sound of your bag hitting the floor echoes a little. There’s a creaking coming from upstairs, like slow footsteps above you. You leave your bag and approach the large staircase.

“Peter?” you call up the stairs. Only your echo answers. You consider going up and looking for yourself, but don’t exactly trust the second floor. You can easily imagine taking a wrong step and falling through the flooring. Not exactly what you want to do.

You’re about to turn around when you hear a growl from the top of the stairs. Peter rounds the corner and you don’t like what you see. He’s fully shifted; face disfigured and bone structure changed to be something a lot more sinister. His eyes are strikingly blue and teeth all pointed and sharp as he growls again. He looks at you evilly, hungrily.

“Run,” he says, voice muffled and low from all the teeth jutting into his mouth. It scares you. “Don’t let me catch you,” he warns. When you hesitate, he roars. It’s a full, mouth open wide, shouting to the sky roar that shakes the house. You turn on your heels and take off.

He jumps the stairs behind you and you look back to see him start to pursue you on all fours. He moves fast and you pump your legs harder, turning to look in front of you as you sprint into the woods. You dodge branches and bushes, no idea where you’re heading. Peter has been rough in his training. The idea of him catching you while he’s like this is not something pleasant.

When your lungs are burning, the cold air both stinging and soothing them when you inhale, you chance a look behind you and realize he’s not still chasing you. That scares you even more. Your feet suddenly stop moving, skidding to a stop in the leaves and mud. Your head and eyes whip around you, ears suddenly peaked up and tuned in to all the noises you can hear.

There’s a low growl, but you can’t tell where it’s coming from. Your heart is pounding and you have half a mind to tell him to stop, that you don’t want to do this. You know it wouldn’t work anyways. Peter is committed.

His body pummels you from behind. You don’t even have time to turn around before you’re going down face first. Your hands come out to stop the impact to your face, squishing down in the mud and barely bracing your fall with Peter landing on top of you. His movements are quick, his werewolf form making him even sharper than normal.

He spins you underneath him, turns you onto your back and straddles your hips. You thrash underneath him, heart still pounding, adrenaline firing thorough you. His claws scrape against the skin of your wrists as he pins them above your head. His weight on your hips is heavy, preventing you from kicking your legs up. 

“And now you’re dead,” he growls as he leans down, bringing his chest close to yours. He brings his lips to your ear. “Try again.” And suddenly he’s gone. He’s shifted off of you, leaving cold air in his place, and has taken off into the thick of the woods. When you sit up slowly, looking around, he lets out another roar that echoes. “Run!”

The game of cat and mouse, or werewolf and human if you’re allowed to humor yourself, goes on for about an hour. It was terrifying at first. Something about Peter in his fully shifted state is scary. Peter has become more human to you over the last few weeks. You’ve seen him as  _him_ , as a person and not this monstrous villain, but when he’s shifted, when he  _looks_  the part of the monster, it reminds you that he is. Or was. God, you hope it’s past tense.

You ended up running, truly sprinting from him, not wanting to see him that way. Not wanting to think about it. That was until about halfway through where he tripped. It was the first imperfect thing you’d ever seen him do. A root caught his hand as he was running on all fours and you managed to turn around just in time to see him tumble head first and summersault forward in a mess of flopping limbs.

The sight broke all the fear, all the dread and the tension. You stopped your running and started laughing, fully bell laughs that you couldn’t control. You walked back over to him to help him up, make sure he was okay. The smile on his face looks extremely foreign on his reconstructed face. He scolded you for coming back and not continuing to run, but you rolled your eyes, your laughs dying down.

The fear was gone after that. It became a game of sorts and you ran just to keep him from winning, to keep that smug look off his face. You never outran him though. You got winded and tired and slowed down and that’s when he pounced. He knocked you into the ground and pinned you down. You tried like hell to ignore the fact that you liked the feeling of him being that close and being on top of you, tried to ignore the way he started to linger there.

By the time the sun was starting to set, you were both covered in mud and grass and leaves and decided to call it for the day. Peter shifted back to his normal state and you walked together back to the house.

Now that you’ve stopped moving, you can feel the soreness and the tiredness really start to seep into you. Your legs feel as though they won’t be able to hold you up much longer and even your chest hurts from breathing so heavily. You silently hate that Peter isn’t even out of breath. You lean down to take two of them many water bottles you brought. You take a drink out of one and then use the other to pour over your hands. You feel a little bad you didn’t stop to consider that maybe it was rude to pour out water on the interior of Peter’s old place, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

“We need to add in a cardio routine to the mix,” he tells you, picking out mud from underneath his nails. “You’re nowhere near where you need to be as far as stamina.” You take another drink and shrug, trying to mask that his words actually stung you a little bit. You thought you’d done pretty well.

“Guess it’s a good thing I don’t intend on running away then,” you try to say it lightheartedly, but his face snaps to yours sternly.

“Yes, you do,” he insists. There’s no humor in him. He’s as serious as the dead and it irritates you.

“I didn’t come to you wanting to flee. I wanted to learn how to fight.” You stand up, straightening out your spine and slowing down your huffs of breath. “I’m not planning on running away.” He tightens his jaw and starts to walk closer to you.

“There are some things you can’t and  _don’t_  fight,” he says lowly. “You run. You run and you don’t look back until you’re safe because if you do, they’ll tear you to shreds before you even have a chance to think about fighting back.” It’s hard not to back down when he’s talking like this, when he’s serious and straight-faced and wound up tight like a stretched rubber band. “A Cerberus is something you run from.” You can feel yourself backing down, your shoulders relaxing and hunching over, the anger and fight fading from your blood. “Surviving is a lot more than learning how to fight.” He practically spits his last sentence and then turns away from you.

He’s stalking towards the door and there’s an urgency rising up in you to say something, to stop him before he goes. All that manages to come out of your mouth, with a hint of disgust is, “You need a shower.” He turns and looks at you over his shoulder, his face scrunched up in a confused face before he recovers and simply nods back. 

“So do you,” he answers and moves back towards the door. You gather your bag quickly and rush out after him.

“I didn’t see your car,” you say as you follow him out of the house. He shrugs without looking at you.

“Didn’t take my car.”

“Don’t tell me you walked,” you say completely astonished. It was way too far for even him to walk from his apartment.

“I needed a good warmup before you got here.” He starts walking towards the woods, back towards a path he apparently intended to take.

“Do you want a ride home?” He pauses and turns on his heels to face you. He looks between you and your car parked next to the house. He actually scoffs.

“I’ll be fine.” His voice is full of bitterness and ice. The anger and infuriation with him comes flooding back when he turns and starts walking away again. You drop your bag and jog up next to him.

“The hell is your problem?” you snap. He purposely looks straight ahead, not letting his gaze fall to you, and picks up his pace. “Peter!” You grab his arm and jerk it back, urging him to face you.

“You don’t get it!” he finally shouts at you. It’s startling. He’s been stern. He’s even bordered on mean before, but he hasn’t truly yelled before. “You think this is a game! If you get enough training points in, you’ll be able to defeat the next level creature. That’s not how it works,” his voice is still raised but he’s stopped shouting. “You could get killed out there.” He points out randomly to the woods. “And I know it’s deceiving since I’ve done it, but you don’t come back from death.”

“You don’t think I know that?” You snap back at him, insulted that he thinks that little of your intelligence. “The whole point of me coming to you is to try  _not_  to die! But I’m tired of being the damsel in distress while everyone else is on the front line. If they don’t run, I don’t run.” 

“Yes, you will,” he growls. You’re sick of him growling, of him trying to sound menacing. It’s not going to work this time. 

“Would you run?” you counter.

“From a Cerberus?” He holds back a laugh and the next words out of his mouth surprise you. “Of  _course_  I would!” The shock on your face must show clear because he scoffs. “Anyone who knows what a Cerberus is, would run. I’d be dislocating your shoulder with how fast I’d grab you and run.” It’s probably the wrong thing to focus on, but the fact that he mentions taking you with him sticks around in your mind. “So when I say you need more cardio, you need more cardio. If you don’t like it, then go get someone else.”

“I don’t want to go to someone else,” you answer slowly. It’s the truth. You came to Peter for this reason. You hadn’t meant to insult him or anger him. You just didn’t think he’d be one to tell you to run. You also never really thought he’d care if you died or not, but apparently he did. He nods his head once.

“Then you’re going to be doing cardio,” he says with finality. You don’t argue this time, just nod back at him. “Good. Tomorrow, my place?”

“I’ll be there,” you tell him. “You sure I can’t give you a ride home?” Peter points his head back towards the woods.

“I’ve got a shortcut.” He doesn’t offer more than that and you don’t bother to ask. You give him a small smile and start to walk back to your car. You cringe at the way the mud is starting to squish in your shoes. “You could throw them in the drier,” Peter remarks, cocky smirk on his face. “Like us undomesticated people.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” You let out a small laugh and you both turn your separate ways.

When you open your car door, you almost sit on the small package resting on the front seat before you see it. It’s wrapped in brown tissue paper and has a little weight to it. You quickly tear open the paper and unveil a new knife. It’s sharp and polished and if you took a chance at guessing, it was completely balanced.

You turn to look for Peter, to see if he’s still there to thank him, but he’s already vanished into the trees. You smile nonetheless, running your thumb over the blade. It’s the perfect size for your hand and your belt. As you start driving away, you wonder if he’ll ever stop surprising you.


	8. Green Eyed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things start to heat up during a training session, only to come to a screaming halt after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long guys!

It’s been two weeks or so since the run in the woods. Save for Stiles getting in trouble for poking at a neighborhood dog, there has been nothing new on the Cerberus front. Peter has made sure to throw in a little cardio at least once a week. Training sessions themselves got bumped up to three times a week somewhere along the way too.

Dinners after training are becoming somewhat regular as well. You’re not sure how exactly. He’s stopped asking if you’d like to stay. Normally, he just pours you coffee and hands you an ice pack to keep you occupied while he starts cooking. By the time the coffee is done and the ice has melted, there’s two plates on his table and enough food for both of you. You don’t mind.

“I have to leave right after training today,” you tell him once you walk in. “I’ve got a thing to go to.”

“I’m so offended,” he says dryly. You put your bag in its normal place and smile fondly at him. You’ve come to enjoy his banter, no matter how dry or sarcastic. His own lips smile back at you just slightly.

“So what are we doing first?” you ask as you turn back to face him. His face is serious, eyes flashing blue at you. He lets out a small growl before he charges. It’s remarkably similar to your first session with him. You’re better prepared this time. You dodge and block and throw some hits of your own.

Every now and again you let him get too close, most of the time while you’re trying to land your own hit, and he lets out a little warning growl. It’s become second nature. If he gets too close, if you’re not paying attention to an important detail, he lets out a warning. If you don’t correct it quick enough, you’re usually on your back with the air knocked out of you. It’s proving to be effective. You’re starting to realize the problem a split moment before he lets out his warning.

Your breath is heavy and you can feel the sweat prickling up onto your skin. He moves you around the room, constantly turning and walking. At one point he reaches out with a smirk and gives you a strong push on your shoulder. You tilt backwards and when you do, your ass hits the back of the couch. You lose your balance and find yourself tumbling backwards over the couch. You land ungracefully on the cushions, a little contorted with one leg still thrown over the back. Peter chuckles above you and walks casually around to the front.

“Watch your surroundings,” he tells you before extending his hand out to you. You lay there for just a moment trying to catch your breath before slapping your hand into his and hoisting yourself up. You awkwardly fumble up to a standing position. He holds you steady by your hand as you find your balance once more.

“That was cheap,” you tease him. “Pushing me over the couch.”

“Have to keep you paying attention.” There are more smiles nowadays between the two of you, both inside and outside of training. You’ve become comfortable and it’s been hard not to view him as some kind of friend. You’re still fighting off butterflies and the crush you know is trying to force its way in.

Even now, it’s hard to stop yourself from admiring the way his muscles look and feel. It’s even harder not to secretly enjoy just how often you get to feel them during training. His hands are always on you, arms constantly being wrapped around you in one way or another. It isn’t uncommon to find yourself landing on top of each other once in a while and when it happens, you stop focusing on how hard you’re breathing and how bad you hurt and easily get lost in the simple feeling of him, in the look in his eyes no matter what it is.

You realize you’ve been musing over things for a just a moment too long. And that you’ve been staring at his chest. Your eyes snap back up to his, a wave of embarrassment washing through you. He doesn’t seem to mind though, his own eyes glazed over and watching you with a slight look of amusement, smile turned small and light. You don’t fail to notice his hand is still holding yours.

Not entirely sure what you’re supposed to do at this point, you take the opportunity to surprise him. You quickly grab his wrist and bend his arm before bringing your foot up to his stomach to kick him away. It’s not a hard kick, but enough to make him stumble a good distance away from you so you can stop focusing so much on parts of him you don’t need to be focusing on.

“Don’t let your guard down,” you mock. The way his smile turns into a smirk and his eyes light up just slightly, you dare say he’s impressed. You raise your fists up and get into position to go again.

Another half hour of continuous movement has you worn out. He’s helping to build up your stamina, moving you around the room even if you’re not actively sparring. You have no idea how long fights actually last in the real world, but a half hour seems like he’s preparing you for war instead.

He comes at you quickly and you block him, duck your head and sweep around to get out of his range. He lets out a warning growl and your brain is either working too slow or you’re not paying attention, because you have no idea what he’s referring to

He makes it pretty clear when he steps forward, pushing you back, and you feel the wall collide with your spine. He takes your moment of surprise as an opportunity and whirls you around. You find your face about to smash into the soft, off-white paint and extend your hands out to stop yourself. His hands wrap around your upper arms and holds them tightly, immobilizing them. His body presses against yours, effectively pinning you to the wall.

You let out a grunt and try briefly to wiggle free, but it’s useless. He’s got you. He brings his mouth down to your ear.

“What do you do now?” he whispers hotly. His lips brush against your earlobe and sends small shivers down your spine. You tilt your head, unsure if you’re making the motions of trying to get away from him or if you’re actually giving him better access to your skin. You try not to think about it too hard.

You forget to answer and you can feel everything slow down. His grip on your arms loosens a little and he presses a little more against your back, almost leaning into you. Both of you are breathing heavily, but the pace of it slows. The breaths are deliberate, like you have to remind yourself to breathe.

His fingers are slowly drifting down your arm as he whispers, “I told you to watch your surroundings.” His voice is rough, but his touch is gentle as his hands send warm shivers through your arms. You watch as his hands come easily into your view, tracing down your arm all the way to your hands still flat on the wall. He presses his palms into the back of your hands, fingers resting between your own, pinning you again.

His lips are barely brushing across your neck and you’re not entirely sure if you’re supposed to be trying to escape anymore. You try to speak, but your mouth is dry. You have to swallow and try again.

“I think it’s time for a break,” you say quieter than you meant to. Peter suddenly grabs your hands and spins you around. Your back hits against the wall with enough force to make you grunt softly. You’re too dazed to figure out how he manages to push your back to the wall and pin your hands over your head without getting your limbs tangled, but he does it.

“There aren’t any breaks in real life.” He doesn’t press his body to yours this time. He keeps a reasonable distance, but it doesn’t stop you from feeling too close to him, from feeling the heat radiate off of him. He’s staring at you intently, intrigued and curious.

“Yeah well, in real life you would have killed me already,” you muse out loud. He shrugs with one of his shoulders and tilts his head.

“Maybe.” The way he says it just sounds like he’s flirting. It’s coy and thick, but that could just be your imagination. He lowers his hands and steps back away from you, letting you lean off the wall while he grabs the water bottles. “Your back okay?” He doesn’t ask often. Most of the time he just hands you an icepack or instructions on how to take care of injuries. It’s rare that he actually asks about them though.

“Yeah,” you answer, taking the water bottle he hands you. After taking a drink you joke, “You were a little weak.” It’s only partly a joke. You know he didn’t push you as hard as he could. He eases up when you’re starting to wear down unless he’s really trying to push you that day.

He gives you a devilish smirk, one that reaches his eyes which shade over with a coat of innuendos as he says, “Sweetheart, I’ll push you against that wall as hard as you want.” You’ve never been more thankful for the way your body heats up while you’re sparring. If it didn’t, the blush reaching across your cheeks would have been painfully obvious.

A few weeks ago, you should have told him to shut up or to fuck off. You would have had  _something_  to combat him with. Now though? Now the words get stuck in your throat and all you can do is shake your head and swallow more water while he chuckles.

“Are we about done for today?” you ask, trying to change the subject. 

“We can be,” he tells you with a shrug. He throws you a towel and then pats his own against his brow.

“Any chance I could use your shower?” He raises an eyebrow at you. “I’ve got this thing to get to and I really don’t want to show up all sweaty.” He throws you another shrug. 

“Towels are in the closet. Help yourself.” He turns away and starts walking towards his kitchen. “Don’t expect any flowery scents,” he throws over his shoulder. You let out a small laugh and find your way to his bathroom.

He doesn’t have a shower curtain. He has one of those glass doors that already looks like there’s water dripping down it, distorting the image through it. It’s simultaneously private and public in its feeling. It seems to suit him somehow.

The water feels good against your sore muscles. You put your hand on the tiled wall and let it pound against your back for a few moments. You close your eyes and your mind begins to wander.

It seems to slowly dawn on you that this is  _Peter’s_ shower. He takes off all of his clothes and stands right where you’re standing. Even though you tell it to stop, your mind can’t stop picturing it. Naked Peter has shown up in your thoughts a little more than you’re comfortable admitting. You’ve had sex dreams before, but that wasn’t necessarily abnormal. Everyone had sex dreams, even with people they didn’t really like. Now for the first time, your mind wonders if he’s ever had sex dreams about you? Had he ever woke up hot and aching? Had he ever touched himself? Had he done it here where you’re standing?

That’s enough of that. You shake your head and clear your thoughts before you divulge too much into them. You straighten yourself up and reach for the soap he has sitting on a shelf inside the shower.

As you start cleaning, scrubbing it in good to wash away the sweat and gross, the shower fills with the smell of it, the smell of him. You find humor in the fact that his soap is where the earthy part of his smell comes from. It’s another thing you had always just assumed about him; he must always be out roaming the woods creepily and that’s why he smells like earth. But no. It’s just his soap which in reality, makes a lot more sense.

You finish cleaning yourself up quickly, using a little of his shampoo which has the same smell. You dry off and hang the towel on the rack he has next to the shower, hoping that’s what it’s for and you’re not just leaving a dirty towel on some fancy and expensive decoration. You pull your fresh clothes out of your bag and slip them on, stuffing your dirty ones to the bottom.

You really don’t want to go tonight. It’s only the end of October and your family is basically having an early Thanksgiving due to some family being in from out of town. It’s not that you don’t like your family. You’d just honestly rather have dinner with Peter. You have to go though and because it’s a full family get together, you’re expected to look nice.

So when you come out of the bathroom, you’re in a simple autumn colored, long sleeved dress that’s snug around your top and flares out at the bottom. You even went the extra mile to through on some nice heeled, knee high boots and the smallest amount of makeup. Your hair is a hint of a mess because you didn’t have a brush, but you solved that by tying it behind you.

You walk into the kitchen where Peter is starting to cook himself something. He’s stirring a wooden spoon in a pot of some kind of white sauce that’s already starting to fill the kitchen with a delicious aroma. He looks up when your heel clicks against the flooring.

You actually see him do a double take at you. His eyes glance up at you in habit, flitting back down to his sauce before he realizes what he’s seen and looks back at you. The way he looks at you is so different than you’re used to. He’s not sizing you up or checking you out lewdly. His eyes widen just a fraction and his lips part open. He almost looks amazed by you, like he can’t look away. You knew you look nice, but you didn’t realize you look  _that_  nice.

His eyes reach up to yours and you have to actively try not to look away, to not stand there and fidget and feel awkward. You toss him a shy smile and wait for him to speak first. He changes suddenly though. The amazed look drops from his face, all the lines straightening out and becoming harsh.

“I didn’t realize it was that kind of thing,” he comments coldly before turning back to his pot of sauce.

Unsure why the change of tone, you stumble for the words, “Yeah, these things kind of require dressing up.”

“Obviously,” he says. You walk further into the kitchen and place your bag on a chair. You take your time picking up your water bottle he brought in and taking the last few drinks of it. The atmosphere is suddenly very standoffish.

“Do you want to set up the next session?” You hope it to be some kind of peace offering, something to make sure he’s not about to blow you off.

“Whenever works for you.” It’s a short and curt answer that doesn’t leave much room for conversation. He still isn’t look at you. “Have fun tonight.” He tries to be nice about it, tries to make it sound sincere, but it doesn’t work in the slightest. It sounds angry, a little hurt even, and leaves you completely confused. 

“Thanks,” you say awkwardly, drawing the word out on the vowel a little. You stand there in silence for a moment before he finally turns and raises his eyebrows at you.

“You should go,” he says flatly. “Wouldn’t want to keep him waiting.”

“Yeah,” you agree absentmindedly. He turns away again and leaves you to get your things and exit by yourself. It dampers your mood. Things seemed a little different today, a little more heated, but maybe you were just fooling yourself.

You’re too confused, too down, to put things together. You miss it completely. You don’t even notice how Peter had assumed you were going to meet a “him.” You spend the rest of the evening with your family, your mind preoccupied with why Peter acted so coldly. You go over it in your head and still don’t see it.

Peter thought you were out on a date.


	9. Too Far

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter’s uncaring personality causes a problem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter than planned and I know it took forever to get out, but I hope it’s okay.

The days tick by and Peter hasn’t reached out to you. You’re a little too timid to reach out to him after the cold way he acted before, but you know you’re going too. You know you’re going to send him a text because you can’t help it. You keep saying it’s out of necessity and don’t let yourself consider the fact that you’re too far gone into whatever this is to just let it die out.

You decide to hold out though, at least until the pack meeting is over. The monthly pack meeting is today and you’ve decided you’ll talk to him after. You want to see if he’s there and if he is, you want to pre-judge how his mood is. If he’s not, well then you can just shoot him a text on your way home.

You arrive at Derek’s loft a little early. When you enter, you’re surprised to see Peter already there. He and Derek are talking and judging by the way they both stop talking to stare at you and palpable tension in the air, it wasn’t a good talk.

“Sorry,” you say, slowly letting yourself in. “Should I come back?” you question, partly hoping they say yes. This looks like it could be about to get awkward.

“No,” Peter says sternly just as Derek is opening his mouth. By the way they glare at each other, you assume Derek was going to say the opposite.

“It’s fine.” Derek’s tone says otherwise, but you’re not about to argue with the two of them. You don’t have to wait too long before the tension gets broken. The pack trickles in not long after you and Peter and Derek keep their distance from each other. You purposely try to avoid them both.

Once everyone arrives though, Derek doesn’t let you duck behind anything. He waits until everyone is paying attention to something else and grabs you by your elbow. He walks into the kitchen, gently tugging you along behind him.

“I know something’s going on,” he states bluntly, moving you around to stand in front of him.

“What are you talking about?” That instinct to lie and deny everything bubbles up before you can even think about stopping it. He rolls his eyes but releases his hold on you.

“You and Peter,” he keeps his voice low and his tone harsh. “He thinks you and I went on a date the other night. And he was not pleased about it.”

“What?” Your shock and confusion is definitely not fake. “Why would he…” your voice trails off as you remember the other night. It finally dawns on you why he was so cold. Not only did he think you were going on a date, but he thought it was Derek. You have to stop yourself from making facial expressions that would give it away. “What did he say?” you ask instead, trying to buy yourself some time.

“He was snarky and bitter and slinging insults, but that’s not the point.” Derek’s anger hasn’t faded. He’s impatient and frustrated and you’re not sure what exactly to tell him at this point. “Why did he think that?” It was less of a question and more of a demand.

“You and I are close, Derek,  _everyone_  has thought it before.” You say it as though it’s obvious even though you’re not entirely sure that’s true. You’re pretty sure everyone has always known your relationship with Derek is strictly platonic. Everyone except Peter apparently.

“Alright, fine.” Derek crosses his arms over his chest and looks you in the eyes in a way that makes it hard to look away from him. “Why did he  _care_?” You have no answer. You’re trying very hard not to think about that question, but Derek is making it difficult. You try to come up with something, but no words come out. “I don’t like the way he smelled.” A large part of you wants to ask, but you know even if you did, he wasn’t going to tell you. He wasn’t going to stand here and describe what emotions he smelled on his uncle while they discussed you. He’s given you as much information as he’s going to.

“I can’t explain why Peter does things.” It’s the only honest answer you can give him and you’re surprised at how much it stings. You don’t like lying to him, but you’re not about to tell him the truth either. Not now and not like this. “Would you just trust me? Everything is okay.”

“It’s not you I don’t trust,” he counters, his eyes shifting to the side as if he’s going to glare at Peter through the walls.

“Well I trust him, so trust my judgement.” His head snaps back to you and if it wouldn’t have been too over the top, you would have clapped your hands over your mouth the moment you stopped talking.

“You trust him?” Your body is heating up and you’re itching to just run out of this room. You’re praying for Stiles to interrupt you, to come stumbling through the door with some absurd question that needs to be answered right now. You take a deep breath, stalling and hoping, but nothing comes to save you.

“For now,” you say slowly, trying to backtrack as much as you can. You do trust Peter for a lot of things. You trust him to train you. You trust him to treat you fairly. At this point you’d even trust him to protect you to an extent. Past that? You’re really starting to have trouble finding the line between actual trust and crush-influenced hope.

Derek examines you. You’re not sure if he’s simply observing you or if he’s listening and it makes you squirm even more. He straightens up and nods curtly, as if he’s decided something.

“Fine.” You don’t like the way he says it. He has a plan or an idea or something going on in his head that you’re not going to like. You’ll worry about it later. For now, you take the opportunity and leave.

The meeting goes by as it normally does. Starts off boring, ends with everyone breaking off and doing whatever they want. You end up alone on the couch, leaning up to reach the bowl of pretzels on the table when Peter comes up to you. You’ve avoided him, even tried to avoid looking at him, but he’s bold and walks right up.

“So when’s our next session?” he asks as he sits himself down next to you. He says it so casually that it throws you off. His demeanor is entirely different than the last time you spoke and he’s not even keeping his voice down. He drapes both of his arms over the back of couch and cocks an eyebrow at you, waiting for a response.

“Uhhh, when’s good for you?” you managed to stumble out. You want to lean back, but it feels too much like you’d be leaning back into his arms or something. It might look too odd, especially if Derek saw. So you put your elbows on your knees and simply look back at him.

“I’m free all week,” he says, seemingly relaxed in his position. There are people floating around the room, but no one seems to be paying attention to you two. You think about scolding him for talking about it publicly, but it’s too late now anyways.

“Tomorrow then?” You realize you’ve offered the day without even considering to wonder if you already have plans. He nods at you.

“Tomorrow it is.” His face is soft and relaxed, almost looking as though he’s humored by something. It irritates you. He’s taking unnecessary risks, not keeping this secret like he agreed to do. The irritation builds up suddenly. The jealousy (if that’s what it was) and the air of casualness he’s shown is not attractive.

“I told you before that Derek and I are just friends,” you snap at him. “Why did you go asking him about that?” He narrows his eyes, seemingly taken aback.

“He mentioned that, did he?” He’s so relaxed, so casual and content. You bite your tongue and stare at him, the anger boiling up. “You looked nice. I assumed you were going on a date. Derek seemed the obvious choice.” He shrugs as if it’s that simple and that clear.

“I was at a family event,” you tell him firmly, coldly. You’re amazed how similar your tone is to how his had been before. Peter shrugs again and you groan in frustration.

You push yourself off the couch and stomp towards the door, not bothering to tell anyone you’re leaving. People slip out all the time during these things. It’s nothing new. You get to the elevator before your skin is buzzing and hot. He’s such a damn jerk.

His hand reaches into the door just before it closes, prying it back open and stepping into the elevator with you. The fact that he came after you both flatters and annoys you. You’re trying to get Derek off your case. Peter chasing after you wasn’t going to help that so the flattery gets squashed out pretty quickly.

“What?” you bark at him. He waits patiently until the door closes in front of him and starts the decent to the ground. He slowly reaches out and pulls the emergency stop button. The elevator shutters to a halt, jostling you in the process, making you grab the rail behind you to steady yourself. “Jesus, Peter!” you shout. “What the hell are you doing?”

“You need to calm yourself down,” he drawls out, leaning his back against the wall. “It’s going to come out anyways, sooner than later most likely. You’re just drawing more attention to it.”

“ _I’m_  drawing more attention to it?” You can hear the way your voice raises and almost cracks, the way it almost sounds crazy. “Me? You’re the one picking fights with Derek, letting him know that we’ve been hanging out!”

“He already knows that. I don’t see the point in hiding it.” He rolls his eyes and it takes everything you have not to slap him across the face. Instead, your voice takes on a cold and deadly tone.

“Because I fucking asked you to,” you tell him. You reach out and push the emergency button back in, the elevator coming back to life and continuing down. It pisses you off he thinks he can just trap you somewhere and make you talk to him.

“Technically, you never did ask,” he comments, squinting his eyes in thought.

“You knew, Peter. Don’t act like you didn’t.” You refuse to look at him, wishing the ground to arrive faster and let you out of this box. “I don’t know if you were jealous or if it’s some kind of power trip for you, but it’s unacceptable. It’s rude and disrespectful and I won’t put up with it.” The elevator stops and dings. As the doors start to open, you turn your head to glare at him. He’s looking straight ahead, avoiding your gaze and he actually looks like he’s trying to hide the fact he doesn’t know what to say. “It’s nice that you care about me not dying,” you comment. “But it’d also be nice if you cared about what _I_  wanted.” You push yourself forward and walk out of the elevator without looking back. 

For the first time, since you started this, he doesn’t follow you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so everything took a different turn here than I planned. I thought I knew what was happening in Part 10, but this has to be resolved first so that’s getting pushed back. I’m along for the ride just like you guys apparently!


	10. Of a Better Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter attempts to apologize.

When the doorbell rings the next day, the last person you expect to find standing there is Peter. He stands there looking almost sheepish; his hands in his pockets, head ducked down and shoulder scrunched up just the slightest bit. You don’t say anything and don’t open the door all the way, not letting him get the impression you were going to invite him in.

“You didn’t show up,” he says. You almost scoff. You had watched as the minutes ticked by on the clock earlier as the scheduled time came and went. You had sat in your chair and when the time passed, you picked up your book and tried to ignore the world. Until he rang your bell that is.

“No, I didn’t,” you state simply. He looks uncomfortable and it gives you a little amount of pleasure. “How did you know where I lived?” you ask, confusion flooding your face. “Please tell me you didn’t ask Derek!” He rolls his eyes before the anger can rise up in you.

“No I didn’t ask Derek,” he tells you. “I used a phonebook.”

“A phonebook?” you question. “They still make those?”

“Yes,” he sighs, obviously annoyed at going off whatever topic he thought you were supposed to be on. He doesn’t do anything to move the conversation along though. Instead he stands there, eyes flittering around, unsure where to land.

“So what do you want, Peter?” Your own annoyance is coming through now.

“Why didn’t you show up?” It’s your turn to roll your eyes as you carefully consider how you want to respond.

“Because you’re an asshole,” you say bluntly. He tilts his head in a one sided shrug.

“According to the rest of the town, I’ve always been an asshole.” His smartass attitude isn’t humorous to you right now. You move back and put your hand on the edge of the door.

“Goodbye, Peter,” you say as you push the door closed. His hand darts out and his palm thuds on the wood, pushing against your motion and stopping you from closing the door in his face. The action is too quick, like he’d done it out of instinct. It startles both of you.

“Just wait,” he requests, carefully removing his hand from your door. You take a breath and open the door back up, waiting somewhat patiently as he mulls over his thoughts. “Are you coming back at any point?”

You find it insulting that that’s the best he comes up with. You aren’t expecting a full-fledged, heartfelt, down on his knees apology, but  _something_  would have been nice. Then again, this is Peter Hale. He’s never been one for selfless acts and apologies. He’s never been one for any kind of feeling that isn’t power hungry. The question he just asked isn’t a manipulative one. It’s simply asking about you and what you’re doing. It’s the closest he can get to asking for forgiveness. In the only way he seems to know how, he’s asking if you will forgive him or if you’re simply done. It’s because of that, you don’t just shut the door again.

“That depends on you, Peter.” You answer honestly. “I know I still have a lot to learn and I still think you’re the best person to teach me, but if you can’t respect what I want, then no. I won’t be coming back.” He doesn’t respond and barely looks at you. You sigh heavily and swing the door open, walking back into your place. Peter follows behind you unsurely. “Why do you even care?” You ask once he shuts the door.

“What?” He’s genuinely confused by the question.

“I always thought that if I just up and quit on you that you’d have the ‘Whatever, go out there and die for all I care’ attitude,” you explain. “But here you are, doing the exact opposite of that. Why?” His shoulders stiffen and he looks off to the side, trying to come up with his answer.

“You’re a good student and it’d be a waste to stop now,” he says, the lack of confidence in his answer pretty clear. “It’s fun,” he tries again. “I don’t know,” he finally admits with a shrug.

“Is it just fun because it gives you a one-up on Derek?” you press. “Something to hold over his head and tease him about? Because I’m not going to be a pawn in your dumb power play.” He looks away from you again.

“I know.” His voice isn’t low, but it’s quieter than usual. “You know he’s going to find out,” he says more confidently. “Why does it matter when?”

“Because I said so,” you repeat. “I don’t want them to know yet. There are other things to worry about and I don’t need them fretting over me.” The look on his face practically screams that he thinks it’s stupid. “Worrying about me could get them hurt or killed. Do you know why I came to you? Why I want this?” You cross your arms over your chest and wait.

“To protect yourself.”

“To protect  _them_ ,” you correct, your voice rising up, irritation, anger, and pure frustration flooding in. “I told you it was for me because if I had said I wanted to do it to protect them, you would have laughed and turned me away. If I told you it was for selfless reasons, for some sort of noble cause, you would have kicked me out on my ass because you have no idea what it means to care for someone!” His demeanor snaps at your last words. His spine straightens out, his lips forming a thin, straight line as his eyes narrow.

“You don’t know me at all,” he practically growls. His feet move swiftly across the floor as he comes up to you, towering himself above you. You don’t budge, don’t back down. “You think I murdered the people who slaughtered my entire family because I  _don’t_  care?” You have to physically hold back your flinch. His psychotic days were a large part of him, the part most people remembered him for and judged him by, but you managed to forget they happened sometimes. “I may not care about Scott and Stiles and their little gang of do-gooders who want to save every single thing they see,” he pauses and shakes his head slowly. “But there are some people I  _do_  care about.”

The question  _Do you care about me?_  rests on the tip of your tongue, begging to be asked. You swallow it whole and don’t let it wriggle back up. You’re not entirely sure you want the answer to it, no matter what the answer is. After moments of you not responding, Peter’s posture relaxes and he takes a step back.

“I’ll try to be better,” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand. You know it’s the best he’s got right now, and really for Peter, that was a lot. So you nod your head once. 

“I’m free tomorrow,” you tell him. He looks at you and returns your nod, his stature straightening out again, back to a normal look for him.

“Then I’ll see you tomorrow.” He turns and walks back to your front door to let himself out. As he’s opening it, you can’t help but ask.

“What would it matter if I  _was_  dating Derek?” He pauses and smirks over his shoulder.

“He doesn’t have the best track record with girls,” he chuckles. “Don’t want you to wind up dead too. Like I said, it’d be a waste of a good student.” He throws you a quick wink and then ducks out the door. You find yourself smiling, feeling like somehow, this was a breakthrough.


	11. Blackout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A large storm rumbles in during training.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So remember that thing I said I knew was going to happy in Part 10? Yeah… That still hasn’t happened yet. It’s now planned for like… Part 13.

You’re convinced all the Supernatural happenings in Beacon Hills have screwed up the weather. It’s early November now and the temperature’s risen back up. Violent storms are rolling in, making it feel much more like Spring than it does nearing Winter. Rain hammers onto your car as you make the drive to Peter’s place. You have to fight the steering wheel to keep driving straight when the wind fires out at you. You probably should have rescheduled, but you didn’t realize just how bad it was until you were halfway there.

You sprint from your car to his doorway, getting soaked in the process, and are only slightly surprised when you see him waiting there with a towel and an amused smirk. You can’t help but laugh a little as you approach him.

“Good thing I don’t get all dressed up for these sessions,” you joke as you take the towel from him. He moves to the side, letting you walk past him and inside where it’s warm. His eyes trail over your body and you’re suddenly very conscious of how your pants cling to your ass so you turn back to face him quickly. His eyes rise back up to meet yours.

“You look good wet.” He throws you a wink. You can feel your face and your gut heat up, but Peter brushes it off as if it’s nothing and moves on quickly. He shuts the door and walks away from you, letting you dry yourself without his prying eyes.

When you’re satisfied you are as dry as you’re going to get, you turn to return the towel to him. Something flies towards your face and you drop the towel to catch it before it hits you. Peter smiles at you.

“Reflexes are getting better,” he comments while walking up to you. He picks the towel off the floor as you look at the object in your hands. It’s a large cloth doll with no clothes and no face. It’s a little creepy looking if you’re honest. 

“Didn’t take you for a doll guy,” you tease, turning it over in your hands. “Is that why I’ve never seen the bedroom? You’ve got your doll collection hidden away in there?” He looks at you, chewing on his tongue and you can just tell he’s considering making another sexual comment about showing you his bedroom.

He ultimately decides against is and says, “It’s your new training tool.” You raise an eyebrow at him and he plucks the doll from your hands. He walks over to the far corner of the room where a string hangs from the ceiling. He ties it around the doll’s neck and lets it dangle there.

“Well that’s not unsettling at all,” you say with a small laugh. Peter turns to you and looks a little impressed with himself. He digs his phone out of his pocket and holds it in his palm.

“Your goal today is to get that thing down,” he tells you before pointing at his phone. “If the timer goes off, you failed. The doll is dead.”

It takes you a minute to realize what he’s doing and once you do, you swear you can feel your body melt away. He listened to you. You want to save your friends and he’s shifting your training in accordance. You have a hard time keeping the appreciative smile off your face and he looks around the room somewhat awkwardly, not sure how to respond past this. He’s not one for grand gestures and when it comes to Peter, this is about as grand as it gets.

“Let’s get started then,” you say, sparing him any more awkwardness. His body relaxes and he grins at you, pointed teeth baring.

You never even get close to saving the doll. Peter keeps you at bay easily, not cutting any corners or taking it easy on you. He lets you approach it, lets you run for it with all your might, but never lets you get close. It’s always more than an arm’s length away. It’s frustrating and satisfying all at the same time. For once, you feel like you’re actually  _doing_  something.

The storm keeps raging outside, the lights flickering every once in a while. It distracts you sometimes which Peter uses to his advantage, advancing while your eyes flitter away briefly. You keep trying to think of ways to distract him, but nothing ever comes to your mind so you’re stuck simply trying to evade him which obviously doesn’t work. There’s just not enough space to move around him like you want to.

He had planned to hold this session out in the woods for that reason, but the weather very quickly shut that down. You can hear the rain beating on the roof and the windows. The wind practically knocks at the door and even if you sparred silently, the place would be far from quiet. The storm wants to be heard.

You find yourself on the floor more than you thought, Peter not letting your fight training go to waste. He starts mini sparring matches between the two of you when you’re far enough away from the furniture and walls. He grins at you the whole time, admiring your motions and your hits, seemingly happy with how far you’ve come so far. It doesn’t stop him from throwing you to the ground though. 

There’s one point where there’s a clear path to the doll. You don’t even second guess it. You take off at a sprint towards it. He catches your wrist from behind you and everything next happens all at once.

A crack of lightning hits somewhere nearby, lighting up the room in a stark white fashion a half second before the floor rumbles underneath you. Peter pulls you back towards him, your shoulder being yanked with it, jarring your movement and vision and causing you to tumble back while trying to turn to brace your fall. Peter catches you, hand pulling your arm in his direction so you manage to fall right into his chest. You grab onto each other to steady yourself and it’s when you look up at him you realize the power’s out.

The sudden hum of electronics shutting down fills the room underneath the sounds of the storm. The lightning strike echoes in your body, your core feeling strangely empty and your limbs tingly. Peter chuckles and all you see are his blue eyes glowing through the dark. His eyes look you up and down, seeing through the dark with ease. With one hand on his chest, you can feel his heart beating steadily under your palm.

“Turn your eyes off,” you tell him lightly. He chuckles again and shifts his weight, adjusting his arms around your waist, but not letting go.

“Turn them off?” he chuckles and pulls you just a little closer.

“They don’t make a good nightlight,” you joke, trying to keep things light and airy, trying to stop your body from tensing up and getting excited. Having him this close, his arms around you, it’s making your stomach flutter and your fingers buzz. He humors you and blinks once, his glowing eyes going dark.

“Is that better?” he teases, his hands finding their place on the small of your back.

“Much,” you answer honestly. Despite the fact that you know he can still see you easily while your eyes are still adjusting to the dark, it makes you feel a little more cloaked. At least now you can’t see how his eyes are studying your face.

Things fall silent and you expect an awkwardness to set in. You’ve been close thousands of times, closer than this even, while training, but you had been actively doing something. Right now, you’re not doing anything. Except holding onto each other.

Except no awkwardness comes. Both of you breathe easily and you can see the silhouette of a gentle smile on his lips, mirroring the one you’re wearing. His hands are warm against the skin of your back where your tank top has risen up. His fingers glide back and forth, tracing small patterns and it sends little shivers up your spine.

The timer on his phone rings out, loud and ringing in the empty room. Neither of you actually startle at the sound, the calm feeling refusing to be interrupted by the intrusion. Peter doesn’t even move to retrieve it and turn it off.

“You lost,” he tells you through the smile. “They’re dead.” It probably should have sounded more ominous, but it sounds more humorous than anything. He gives a small shrug, his chest and arms lifting underneath him, muscles flexing just slightly. “You probably are too, being this close and all.”

“No,” you shake your head playfully. “I’ve got a villainous werewolf that would save me.” His smile softens and he shifts his weight again.

“Do you now?” Your smile widens and you shrug back at him.

“Pretty sure,” you answer. “He’d at least try.” He gives you a small bark of a laugh. “Now go turn that thing off.” You nod your head towards the phone still playing a generic, annoying tune. His arms drop away from you and he moves towards the end table where he put it.

Your eyes start to adjust to the lack of light and you can make out the dark shape of his body as he hits the stop button. The phone illuminates his face in a blue light briefly before he puts it back down. He throws it back down and turns to face you.

“You’re not going to make me train in the dark, are you?” Something about the idea of Peter throwing you around in the dark makes you uneasy and not necessarily in a bad way. The dark gives the illusion he doesn’t see you, gives you something to hide behind. That just sounds too risky.

“It would be a good exercise,” he muses. You start to make your way towards the couch, relaying mostly on memory to guide yourself there. He steps up beside you and cradles your elbow, guiding you the rest of the way. “Or we can take a break.”

“A break would be good.” You both sit on the couch as another crack of lightning strikes. It’s a three-person couch with plenty of room, but you find yourselves sitting in the middle so close that your arms touching

“You’re doing well,” Peter tells you, reaching out and patting your knee. It only slightly surprises you when he doesn’t remove it.

“Thank you,” you say softly. 

“Nothing to thank.” He leans his head back and relaxes into the couch. His fingers squeeze your knee. “You earned it.” It takes you a moment to respond, but the darkness gives you the courage. 

“No,” you correct him and place your hand on top of his. He doesn’t move, but a few of his fingers twitch. “I mean  _thank you_.” You curl your fingers over the inside of his palm and hold onto his hand. “For all of this. For teaching me and…” You motion your hand around the room as if it’s all there for him to see. “For everything.” 

He shifts his eyes to look at you, but doesn’t turn his head. No words are offered, but his own fingers bend, curl underneath yours and hold on. The butterflies in your stomach flare up as he squeezes your hand. You hold your breath expecting him to let go instantly and when he doesn’t, you release your breath nice and slow. The butterflies die down and somehow it feels comfortable. You wonder when you got to the point where you’re both at ease enough with each other that holding hands is comfortable.

“Do you want something to eat?” he asks. He doesn’t wait for you to answer, just squeezes your hand one last time before standing up.

Peter has a gas stove and is able to fry up a steak and some rice even in the dark. Things slip back into their normal routine. You talk easily as he cooks, joke back and forth and have friendly conversation. When everything is done, you try to clean up for him, but he swipes the plates from your hands and ushers you out of the kitchen.

If anything, the storm’s gotten worse while you ate. It’s gotten more violent and you’re expecting tornado sirens to start going off at any moment. You approach the window to watch, but keep your distance as if the storm is going to rip it away and attack you. You can’t stop watching it though, watching the rain whip down through the wind. There’s an insane amount of beauty in it. 

“I don’t recommend trying to drive home in that.” You didn’t even hear him when he entered. Another flash of lightning strikes and you look away, slightly blinded by the light. Peter has ahold of one end of his couch, lifting it up and moving it back to its normal position, closing off the regular training ring. “You should probably just stay here tonight.” He says it so casually you almost don’t catch it.

“Stay here?” you question. He lets out a huff as he lowers the couch and moves to the other end. “Overnight?” He moves the other end into place and smirks at you.

“Give you a chance to see the bedroom.” His eyebrows wiggle at you suggestively and you can’t help it. You laugh and walk up to him with a sway in your step.

“Want to show me your doll collection?” He laughs back at you, leaning his head back and letting out a long, “Oooh,” pretending like you stung.

“There are a lot of things I could show you in there.” His voice is low and seductive, but his eyes are playful. Or at least you think they are. It’s hard to tell exactly what they look like in the dark. The soft laughter keeps coming out of both of you.

“Maybe,” you counter. “But I doubt it would be anything impressive.” His smile widens, enjoying the banter you’re throwing back.

“So is that a yes?” He stands in front of you waiting for your answer, his stance almost challenging you to say no.

“I don’t have much choice, do I?” You shrug and throw a look over your shoulder at the window. The storm isn’t stopping anytime soon.

“I’ll set up the couch for myself,” Peter says. He moves away from you and towards his closet to grab his extra blankets. “You can have the bed.” 

“Peter, that’s alright,” you protest. The last thing you want is to intrude. Honestly, you feel bad enough accepting the offer to stay. “I’ll be fine on the couch.”

“You say that until you see the view from the skylight.” He smirks at you as he comes back, arms toting blankets and pillows. He tosses them on the couch and you stare at him wide eyed.

“You have a skylight in your bedroom?” It was not something you expected. Come to think of it though, there isn’t a single thing about his place that  _hasn’t_  surprised you. With every new bit of it you see, the more surprised you are.

“Bet the storm looks good from it,” he says. You briefly wonder how long he watched you as you watched the storm from the window. He knew it was tempting to you. He knew just what’s going to pull you in. “Want to see?”

“Oh, yeah.”


	12. Field Test

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The storm has stirred up something and the pack wants to investigate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter may be a little rushed in places. There was a lot to get in and I wasn’t sure about some of it…

You wake up alone in Peter’s bed the next morning wearing one of his shirts and your soft shorts you had brought as backups for training. Sun is filtering in through the blinds on his window and there’s a clear blue sky staring back at you from his skylight. You can already smell coffee drifting in from the kitchen. You take a moment to stretch yourself out and recall the last events you remember.

The evening had been much more fun and much more comfortable than you had imagined it being. He had pulled a couple drinks out of the fridge and lit a few candles around the apartment to help you see a little. You sat on the couch and drank and talked for quite a long time. It still amazed you how easy talking to Peter was. You managed to talk about everything and nothing at the same time, the minutes flying by.

He had eventually shown you to his room which did in fact have a skylight and looked much like the rest of his apartment; dark wood furnishings that looked expensive, some artwork but no throw pillows on the queen sized bed, very Peter-esque overall. While you looked around, he walked over to his dresser and pulled out one of his t-shirts. He tossed it at you, impressed you managed to catch it with minimal fumbling in the dark.

“You can use that if you want,” he had said. “I doubt you really want to sleep in workout clothes.” You tried to argue, but he had hushed you and ushered you to the bathroom to change with a candle in hand.

When you came back to the bedroom, you felt weird. You were wearing his clothes and about to sleep in his bed. You were officially a guest in his home somehow. You didn’t much like being a “guest.” It felt awkward. His apartment suddenly transformed into a museum and you felt like you couldn’t touch anything in case you broke it or got it dirty. Literally nothing would be more mortifying.

The uneasiness passed quickly when he told you to lie in his bed and look at the skylight. Not one to be left out, he slipped down next to you. Having him there made it feel less awkward, less weird. You both laid on top of the covers, staring up at his skylight.

The storm was finally starting to die down, only the occasional ripple of thunder flittering through the air. The rain kept pelting down on the glass, leaving little squiggles of trails as it rolled down the large, slanted window. Dark clouds loomed overhead, lightning streaking between them. You and Peter just watched for quite a while.

There was little conversation, but when it happened, it was light and airy. You shared your opinion about your blaming the supernatural happenings for the strange weather and he laughed besides you. Your eyes slowly drifted shut at some point, sleep overtaking you. 

The next thing you know, here you are; underneath his covers and snuggled into his pillows. The electric hum is back in the air and you realize the power came back on at some point. After stretching yourself out, you carefully leave his room, your feet padding softly on the floor. Entering the living room, you see disheveled blankets and pillows on the couch where Peter had slept. You make your way into the kitchen to find him placing bacon in a hot skillet.

“Morning,” he greets when he hears you enter. He’s got sweat pants on and no shirt. Peter with no shirt is still an uncommon sight and to be hit with it first thing in the morning is slightly jarring. He could at least wait until you’ve had coffee to be attractive. Trying to avoid looking at him, you completely miss the satisfied look he has on his face as he takes you in. “Sleep alright?”

“I slept great,” you admit as you sit yourself down at his table. He turns from the stove and walks over to hand you a cup of coffee. You smell its sweet aroma and perk up. “Sorry you had to sleep on the couch.” 

“It’s a comfortable couch.” He smiles as you start to drink and he goes back to the stove. Before you finish your cup, he places down a plate of eggs and bacon in front of you and another one for himself. “Derek called,” he informs you as he sits down.

“Already?” You look at the clock. It’s only 8 and while that’s not exactly super early in the morning, it seems too early on the weekend for Derek to be harassing his uncle.

“Apparently the storm stirred something up out in the woods.” He pauses to take a bite of his eggs and then reaches for the salt. “He’s going to go check it out and then call us in if need be.”

“Us?” There’s a little bit of panic rising up in your chest. You had made it pretty clear to Peter that there was to be no  _us_  when it came to outside the training sessions.

“The pack,” Peter corrects himself. “Don’t worry, I didn’t tell him I knew where you were so if he needs us, you’ll be getting your own phone call.” You smile gently at him. You don’t mean to jump to conclusions, but it’s hard not to when it is  _Peter_  you’re talking about.

“Thanks,” you tell him. He simply nods in return. You eat in peaceful silence for a brief amount of time before you hear Peter’s phone ring.

He stands up from the table and walks to the counter where he left it. It’s hard not to let your eyes linger on his back, on the toned muscle of his shoulders. He really needs to put a shirt on.  You’re so distracted you don’t even hear what he’s saying when he answers. All you know is when he turns around to face you, you look away quickly.

“Looks like your phone should be going off soon,” he tells you while holding up his own. “Derek found something.” You quickly shovel the rest of the food on your plate into your mouth and stand in a hurry.

“Where  _is_  my phone?” you question. Peter’s face elongates into a fake frown, eyes drifting off, contemplating.

“Good question,” he responds. It takes you ten minutes and three phone calls from Peter for you to following the ringing sound and find your phone buried inside the couch. By that point, Derek has already texted you and gave you a meeting point. You type out a quick response and start to gather the rest of your things.

“I’ll meet you over there?” you ask after you’ve changed back into your clothes. Peter has cleared off the table and put all of the dishes in the sink. He’s also finally put a shirt on.

“I’ll give you a five-minute head start,” he says, walking you towards the door. He opens the door and you pause, unsure of what kind of goodbye is suitable right now.

“Thanks for letting me stay,” you offer. He rolls his eyes and puts a hand on the center of your back, giving you a small push out of his apartment.

“Get going or I’m going to end up beating you there.” You laugh and make your way towards the stairs. “See you soon.”

–

“Anyone else developing a fear of dogs?” Stiles asks. There’s a slight shake in his voice. Everyone is gathered around a paw print indented in the mud. You could stand in the middle of it, probably even sit down in it, and if you looked at it close enough, you could see blood engraved in the mud.

No one gives Stiles a response. You admit that after the silence that followed when the Cerberus claw was found, you thought maybe it was a fluke, maybe there wasn’t anything going on. That idea just got blown to hell.

“So what do we do now?” you ask, looking to Scott. He’s the Alpha after all. His mouth flops open a couple times as he tries to form some kind of plan.

“I say we spread out and see if we can find anything else?” He’s unsure of himself and you almost cringe. Poor kid. “I mean, why is there  _one_ paw print? Where’s the rest?”

“Remember Deaton said it’s more spirit than flesh?” Lydia pipes in while you crouch down to examine the mud a little more closely.

“Maybe it only leaves prints when it’s in its full form,” you muse aloud. “Or maybe it shifted back to a regular size and the storm buried the other prints.” You extend your hand and point to the top of the print by the claws. “Look at the edges. They’re worn, almost eroded. The storm could have wiped away smaller prints.” Everyone turns their eyes to look. Except Peter. Peter’s eyes slide across the gathering and land on you. He gives you an impressed smirk before blinking back down to the mud.

“Seems likely,” Derek comments. “I’m going to call Deaton, see if he has any news. Everyone else stay alert. It could still be nearby for all we know.”

The pack disperses for the most part. Derek walks away a bit, pulling out his phone to follow through with his phone call. Stiles grabs Scott and drags him off, not hiding his excitement about hunting through the woods like the old days. Peter slowly drifts away, staying within eyesight, but not close enough to look like he’s waiting for you.  You stay crouched down, examining the print.

“Nice knife,” Allison says next to you. Your shirt has risen up just enough to show off the knife you’ve tucked into the back of your pants. You threw it there last minute before getting out of your car, your holster left at home. “Looks expensive.” You quickly stand up and tug your shirt down.

“Yeah,” you stutter. “It was a gift,” you say, not really sure how to react. She wasn’t being intrusive or anything. She was genuine about it, being a fan of knives herself. You just didn’t know how to respond. You hadn’t planned out an explanation for it.

“From who?” Lydia asks as she comes to join you. Again, not intrusive, but genuinely curious.

“Oh, uhhh,” you fumble for words, trying not to let the blood rush to your face. Allison raises an eyebrow at you, confused on why you’re having an embarrassing mini meltdown. You blink rapidly, trying to force a decent answer to materialize in your brain. “Well, ummm…”

“I gave it to her,” Derek says from behind you. A rush of relief floods you and your shoulders relax. “There’s a rumor going around that we’re dating and she’s trying not to feed it,” he explains casually at their questioning looks.

“You could have just said that,” Lydia snickers. “I know a few things about dating rumors. My advice; milk it. It makes other guys jealous. Especially if you’re getting expensive gifts.” Allison scoffs and rolls her eyes with a smile. Lydia throws you a playful wink before they walk off.

“Thanks,” you say sheepishly to Derek when they’re out of earshot. Derek doesn’t look welcoming. He looks down at you with a straight and serious face. He makes a grunting noise in response and walks away without another word. It all makes you feel extremely guilty and a little sad. You look down at your shoes and sigh heavily.

You end up walking off on your own not even chancing a look at Peter or at Derek before you go. The woods are quiet and crisp. The sun hasn’t risen high enough to warm up the denser parts so you zip up your thin jacket and pull it tight to your body. You haven’t seen anything and hope the others have had better luck.

You’re deep in the forest, unsure of how long you’ve been walking alone when you hear a small rumble. At first you think it’s thunder; the last remnants of last night’s storm maybe, but then it happens again and it’s distinctly different. It makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up and a bad chill slithers through your body.

You whip your head behind you, surveying the land. You don’t see anything out of place, but that doesn’t mean something’s not there. The rumble happens again, closer this time. You don’t wait any longer. Peter has said enough about a Cerberus to make you not want to hang around.

You break off at a run, not exactly paying attention to where you’re going, shoes threatening to get stuck in the mud and slip off. You use your arms and hands to shield your face from stray branches and bushes. Your heart is pounding and your lungs are starting to burn. You have to remind yourself to breathe. You swear you hear footsteps behind you, but you don’t dare look back.

You almost scream when a hand wraps around your mouth. It pulls you back with the aid of the one jerking on your arm. You fall backwards and thud against a chest behind you. Your body jolts alive, panic coursing through you. You start to claw at the hand on your mouth, twist and turn your body, fighting the grip.

A head leans down next to yours and harshly whispers, “Stop,” in a familiar voice. Another wave of relief rushes over you when you recognize the body behind you as Peter’s. The tension of panic melts away and you relax and lean back into him. The hand around your arm slips around your waist, holding you up against him. He doesn’t remove his hand from your mouth.

The rumble happens again. There’s no doubt it’s the sound of an animal growl. A very large animal. The fear returns and you instinctively press tighter against Peter. He chances a look behind the tree he’s pulled you up against. The animal growls again.

“Time for a field test,” he whispers against your ear when he turns back. “Run. Now.”

He shoves you off of him, a strong hand on your back. You take off at a sprint, but it’s not fast enough for Peter’s liking. He takes your hand and darts out in front of you, almost dragging you with him. Your feet struggle to keep up until the thing behind you lets out a monstrous howl. It kicks your survival instinct into gear and suddenly keeping up with Peter isn’t so hard.

It chases you. You refuse to look behind you, refuse to see it, refuse to risk throwing off your balance and falling down. Its paws thunder on the ground as it follows you, panting and growling. You pray the hot breath you feel on the back of your neck is just your imagination.

Without warning, Peter takes a sharp right turn, towards an embankment. He yanks you up to the front with him and practically throws you off the edge. Everything turns into a tumbling mess. Peter pulls you with him, cushioning the initial landing partway down the slope. He tries to keep a hold on you, but as you both fall and roll down the rest of it, you lose your grip on each other and go in different directions.

You land on your back hard at the bottom in a pile of leaves. It does nothing to soften the ground for you. Your head is spinning and your chest feels compressed, like you can’t breathe in at all. You force a cough to get your airflow going again. Your whole body hurts, but you can hear the animal getting further and further away. It didn’t follow you.

Peter calls your name and moments after, he’s skidding across the forest floor on his knees to be down beside you. He reaches out and runs his hands over your arms and your stomach, as if he’s feeling for injuries while his eyes scan the top of the embankment above you. 

“Are you alright?” he asks worriedly. You reach up and grab one of his hands, stop it from roaming insistently over your body. You squeeze it and use it to pull you to sit up.

“I’m fine,” you assure him even though your head is still spinning a little. He puts his free hand on his back to help support you.

“Look at me,” he commands. You listen, your eyes finding his. It’s hard to focus, your vision blurring just slightly. He watches you intently, waits for the dizziness to stop and your eyes to clear. “I told you that you’d run,” he teases lightly, but the humor in it feels forced. 

“Are you hurt?” He rubs his hand along your spine and shrugs.

“I heal fast,” he says casually. “You okay to stand?” he watches you carefully as you nod, looking for any signs that you might not be. He keeps a hold on you and helps pull you to your feet. Your body hurts, but nothing feels injured. You’ve definitely been through worse. “Let’s get back to the others.”

He keeps a hold on your hand to help guide you over a fallen tree, going over it himself first and then turning around to assist you. He puts a hand on your waist as you come over the top and keeps it there until he’s sure you’re steady on your feet. He releases your waist, but as you walk, making your way back through the woods, he doesn’t let go of your hand.

“Did you follow me?” you ask, taking your focus off of the way he keeps a tight grip on you. His eyes are constantly gliding back and forth, ears tuned into the sounds around you. It makes you feel safe.

“Did you think I was going to let you go off on your own with a Cerberus roaming around?” You get the feeling that if he wasn’t on guard, he would have said it a lot more cheekily than he had. If he had, you would have made some kind of flimsy remark about leaving the others to die and you would have laughed. But he said it seriously and it makes it impossible to just skip by the truth. He cares.

You choose not to say anything. You both already know it’s out there, that he’s practically said it multiple times in the last 24 hours. You don’t see the need to bring it up, especially not now.

He hears the pack before you do. As you approach them, before you even realize you’re close, he drops your hand and widens the space between the two of you. It doesn’t stop Derek from eyeing you two angrily when you enter the clearing.

“What happened to you two?” Allison asks when she sees you. You look at her confused for a moment before you feel that familiar squish in your muddy shoes. You have to look like a complete mess.

“Oh,” you look down at yourself and sure enough, mud and leaves are clumped to your body. “We found it.” Allison’s eyes widen.

“More like it found her,” Peter says darkly, his eyes falling on his nephew. You can tell he wants to say something snarky, but he holds his tongue.

“I shouldn’t have called you all out here,” Derek admits. He walks forward, not quite walking up to you, but still coming closer, his eyes softening. “Go home until we have a plan. It’s too dangerous.”

You’re about to protest, to tell him off and fight, but there’s a snapping sound off to your left. Derek’s eyes flash and he crouches down to a fight stance. Allison draws an arrow as Lydia takes a step behind her. You reach for your knife the same time that Peter steps up in front of you, extending an arm across your chest, gently coaxing you behind him.

Stiles and Scott come running out from behind the trees, Stiles out of breath and heaving. Everyone relaxes and Derek rolls his eyes. He catches the way Peter’s stance loosens and when he slowly lowers his protective arm, Derek’s eyes linger.

“Can I use someone’s phone?” Stiles gasps. “I need to call my dad.” He puts his hands on his knees and bends over, trying to catch his breath.

“You found a body,” Lydia says instinctively. The pack grows silent and Scott nods sadly. This is definitely not something you can ignore anymore. No one moves forward so you dig your cell out of your jacket pocket, surprised it’s still clean and unscathed.

“Here,” you say, reaching out to give Stiles your phone.

“What happened to yours?” Derek asks, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Dropped it in the river bank.” Yet again, Derek rolls his eyes and groans at the teenager’s stupidity. “Thanks,” Stiles tells you, taking your phone and turning away to call his dad.

“What did it look like?” Allison asks you, trying to fill the tense silence that falls over everyone.

“I didn’t even really see it,” you tell her honestly. “It was big though.” She and Lydia look at each other, not really sure what to say from there. This wasn’t like anything you’ve dealt with before. No one has any idea where to even start with this.

“Okay,” Stiles says when he hangs up your phone. “Dad says we have to get lost. Our footprints are probably all over this place as is and we don’t want to be here when the cops show up.”

“I’ll take care of the footprints. Everyone else go home,” Derek says, pointing his chin towards the circle of cars nearby.

“You can just get rid of footprints?” Stiles ask skeptically. Derek simply glares at him with that  _quit asking questions_  look and Stiles shuts his mouth.

“We can regroup later?” Scott suggests and everyone nods along. He walks up and takes Allison’s hand to lead her back to her car with Lydia. Peter approaches Derek and while you plan on listening in to their conversation as much as you can, Stiles comes up to you and puts your phone back in your hands.

“Peter stalking you?” he asks. Your head snaps back to him.

“What?” you asked shocked and confused. Stiles points to your phone.

“It says he called you like three times this morning.” You can feel the blood drain out of your face. You really aren’t good at this whole hiding and lying thing.

“Yeah, he uhhh…” you trail off trying to think of something,  _anything_. “He had the wrong number.” Stiles furrows his brow.

“Three times?”

“I think there was something wrong with his phone.” You mentally kick yourself. Saying he was trying to get ahold of you to ask you a question about how to boil water would have sounded less suspicious at this point. Stiles, bless him, just shrugs like it’s nothing and walks off to find Scott. You breathe out heavily. Not your finest moment.

You look back to see Derek walking up to you and Peter heading back to the cars. Derek’s eyes are worried as he looks you over. His shoulders slouch and he looks remorsefully at you.

“Are you okay?” he asks softly. Just because he’s mad doesn’t mean he’s stopped worrying about you.

“Yes.” You spread your arms as if he’s going to see for himself. “Just took a little tumble down a hill is all.”

“Did he lead you to it?” He tries to suppress the accusatory voice, but fails.

“No,” you say firmly. “He got me out of there.” He nods, unable to do anything more than to just accept it.

“Just go home and be careful, okay?” He looks like he’s going to reach out to you, maybe to pat your arm, maybe to hug you. He doesn’t follow through with it though. “We can’t afford to risk anyone else.”

“I know,” you say quietly. “I know, Derek.” He breathes in deeply and straightens out. 

“You better get going before the sheriff shows up.” You give him a friendly smile and nod before you start making your way to your car.

Everyone except Peter has taken off. He waits patiently by your car, leaning back against the hood. You try to remember the last time you left a pack meeting and he wasn’t waiting for you. They’re few and far between it seems like.

“He’s right,” Peter says, an anger hidden deep in his voice. “He shouldn’t have called you out here.” It’s your turn now to roll your eyes. 

“This is what you’re training me for!” you complain, stepping up in front of him. He shakes his head stubbornly.

“It’s an unnecessary risk. This is why he wasn’t a good Alpha. You don’t bring your pack to investigate something when you don’t have all the facts.” He pushes himself off of the hood of your car, bringing his body closer to yours. You choose not to argue. You know it’s not going to do any good. Peter reaches up and brushes his thumb along your cheek, wiping away some drying mud.

His hand lingers, knuckles resting on your jaw as his thumb brushes back and forth slowly. You find your head tilting into his touch before you catch yourself. You lift your hand to hold onto his.

“Thanks for saving me today,” you tell him. He groans, but his eyes don’t leave yours.

“Quit thanking me,” he demands. It almost sounds like a plea, like your thanking him does something unpleasant to him. Or maybe even does something too pleasant. “I’m not the kind of man you thank.” He sighs heavily and lets his hand fall from your face. 

“I think you are.” You smile sweetly and give his hand a squeeze.

“I’m not,” he insists. He lets out another sigh and finally breaks his eyes away from yours, looking out to nothing. He pulls his hand back and moves away from the car and you. “The sooner you realize that, the better.” You don’t push it and just let him move away. The smile doesn’t leave your face though. “You going to get home okay?” 

“I’ll manage,” you chuckle. You run a hand through your hair, combing some of the mud out. “I need a shower.”

“You and me both,” he chuckles back at you. He looks down at his pants, the knees stained with grass and threatening to tear apart.

“It’s going to take forever to get all of this out.” You’re still combing it with your fingers, finding tangles and bits of sticks. “I’m going to have to scrub my hair in the shower tonight.” A dirty smirk lifts onto Peter’s face.

“I’d offer to help you out with that,” he drawls. “But then you’d have to spend the night in my bed again.” You scoff and smile wider. Same old Peter.

“What are you going to do when one day I take you up on that?” you joke back with him. His smirk turns devilish and he raises an eyebrow at you. 

“Oh, there are all sorts of things I could do then.” His words send a warm tingle crawling down your spine and your body flushes. “But I think you know better than to do that.” You swallow hard, unable to really say anything to him. Before, you wouldn’t even dream of it, but now? Now you’re not so sure. “Practice tomorrow?” he propositions. You nod quickly.

“See you tomorrow.”


	13. Caught

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek finally catches you with Peter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here it is. This is part I have planning for like 3 parts now. It’s finally here. I’m so happy! Also… I have an obsession with Peter’s couch. I don’t know why.

You don’t knock on Peter’s door anymore. You’ve been letting yourself in regularly now when you have scheduled sessions. If you were going to drop by unannounced, you’d knock of course, but you can’t think of a time you’d ever do that. It started with him simply yelling at you to come in. He did it so often that it became habit to just knock, then enter. Somewhere along the way, the knock disappeared. He’d never said anything about it, never discouraged it, so you kept doing it.

You were about to wish you knocked.

The previous day had passed quietly. You managed to get yourself clean once you got home, taking a long shower and brushing through your hair. You found a couple of tender spots from the fall, but nothing bad. Neither Scott nor Derek reached out and while you were curious about what happened and what the next steps were, you didn’t contact them and kept your head down.

Peter, however, shot you a text before you fell asleep to let you know Derek was meeting with Deaton and would touch base tomorrow. You got the feeling that wasn’t the only reason he texted and offered up the information that you were still uninjured. You texted briefly back and forth before saying goodnight.

You ended up being late the next day. You had a family lunch that ran long and you had forgotten your bag at home. You were forced to drive back to your place, change, and pack in a very short amount of time. You ran out the door in a huff, not even managing to put on your jacket.

Combining your tardiness with your lack of knocking and observation skills was a recipe for disaster. 

The first thing you notice is that his furniture hasn’t been moved yet. Anyone else may have noticed with way Peter’s eyes widened slightly when you entered, or the familiar car parked outside his building. The leather jacket on the chair, the tension in the air, or even the unread text sitting on your phone telling you not to come in all would have been dead giveaways to someone who paid attention. But apparently, the whole “watch your surroundings” lesson hasn’t stuck to your brain yet because you notice none of it. You notice the furniture.

“Please don’t tell me today is another ice day,” you say as you put your bag down. Peter stays silent, eyes flittering towards you and the kitchen doorway. “Because I’m  _really_  not that hurt. I can take at least a few more physical training days.”

“Physical training?” Derek’s voice flitters through the room from the kitchen door. Your body stiffens and suddenly goes cold, your stomach twisting awfully. Your back is to him, but you can feel the daggers in his eyes and the hard, angry stance he’s standing in. Peter closes his eyes and sighs heavily.

“I wish you would check your phone more often,” he muses, shaking his head. Derek waits impatiently for you to suck it up and turn to look at him. He’s pissed. That much is plain and clear in the way he looks between you and Peter.

“Hi, Derek,” you say sheepishly once you’ve turned around.

“This stops now,” he demands as he starts walking strongly, nearly stomping really, into the living room. He’s looking at his uncle for the most part, only glancing at you. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Peter groans and rolls his eyes.

“What do you think I’m doing?” he snaps back at his nephew. He keeps his voice low, eyes hard and narrow. “I’m doing what you won’t. I’m teaching her to defend herself, to be useful.” You open your mouth to interject, but they keep arguing, making you feel like nothing more than a spectator. “You want to keep throwing her into the thick of monsters, then she should have the tools to survive.” Derek audible growls.

“She has them. All you’re doing is encouraging her to get herself killed!” Derek’s eyes widen slightly and he shakes his head. “And what do you get out of it? What game are you playing?”

“A fun one, evidently,” he snarkily. Derek grinds his teeth together.

“This is done.” Derek finally turns to look at you. “Whatever he’s doing, it’s done. Go home.” You’re taken aback and cross your arms over your chest.

“Excuse me?” You catch the humored look on Peter’s face. If it was appropriate, he might have actually sat down, crossed his legs, and watched on like he was watching a good show. “You don’t tell me what to do, Derek.”

“Is this why you’ve had bruises?” Derek accuses, blowing right past your frustration. He turns his anger back on Peter. “If you lay a hand on her ever again,” Derek starts.

“You’ll what? Kill me?” Peter laughs. “You’ve done that before. It didn’t stick.”

“You think this is all a joke?” Derek’s voice goes dangerously low as he takes another step towards Peter, getting as much in his face as he can. The tension in the air is thick and it’s starting to raise your heartrate. The last thing you want is a family werewolf fight in the middle of the living room. “This is her  _life_  you’re toying with.” Derek shoves a finger in your direction, his eyes narrowing at his uncle. “I get that you’re a selfish prick who doesn’t care about her, but I do and I’m not going to let you put her in the line of fire with some half-assed training.”

“You care about her?” Peter’s voice is dropping down now. It evens out, all humor gone and there’s that threaten of a growl in the back of his throat. You want to intervene, want to step up in between them and start yelling, but Derek’s claws are slowly forming and Peter’s hands are in fists. “Then where were you yesterday?” He pauses to let his words sink in, to watch Derek’s jaw click. “If it wasn’t for me, if I hadn’t of watched out for her, if I hadn’t had been working on her stamina and speed, she’d be dead.  _I_  took care of her, not you.”

The silence that follows is chilling. They don’t look away from each other, challenging each other to make a move. Your muscles tighten as you watch them, readying yourself to dart out of the way if things do end up getting physical. You find yourself involuntarily taking a step back.

“What happens when you decide you’re done playing good guy?” Derek asks. “When she’s too much of an inconvenience for you anymore?” 

“Then she’ll know how to take care of herself,” Peter fires back without hesitation. “She’s not one of your depressed, second-rate, co-dependent, misfit teenagers. I’m not teaching her to rely on me.” He breaks away from the death stare they’re holding and looks at you. Your heart beats faster. “She’s a fighter.” His eyes relax, his lips tilting up just slightly. It turns your stomach and before he even opens his mouth, you know what kind of comment is coming out. You silently beg him not to, but you already know it’s useless. “Do you see her body?” His eyes slide with his smirk back to Derek. “Fit and tight. Great for a sparring partner. Perfect for pinning down.”

Derek lets out a roar that’s barely restrained for being inside a building. It doesn’t echo in your ears, but you feel it in your chest. His claws lash out towards his uncle, one hand going for his face, the other for his gut. Peter reacts quickly, grabbing his nephew’s wrists and letting go a roar of his own. Derek breaks free and goes after him again, slashing Peter’s shirt. It’s a stupid thing to think in the midst of their fight, but you wish Peter had moved the couch before Derek arrived. It would have given them more room.

Their eyes flash, roars and growls filling the room. They shove at each other, grab and claw and throw punches they are mostly able to dodge from each other. You know Peter is going easy on him. If he wasn’t, Derek would be on the floor with a broken wrist already. You yell at them, demand they stop, but they don’t listen. When you see Derek’s claws drag across Peter’s chest, see blood seep through his shirt, you don’t even think about it. You intervene.

Heart pounding and body thrumming from adrenaline, you run up behind Derek. Your fists pound onto his back before your hands wrap around his upper arms, physically trying to pull him away. Derek doesn’t stop, too blinded in his fit of fury. You see more blood on Peter’s shirt, dripping down to the floor and you get more aggressive.

You hold onto his arms to brace yourself as you drive one of your feet hard into the back of his knee. His leg buckles and his weight comes back towards you. You try to sidestep him while keeping pressure on his shoulders, forcing him to keep falling. Out of instinct, his hands flail out in an attempt to catch himself on something. His claws scrape over your forearm, but he doesn’t get anything close to hold. The hit knocks you off balance, sending you toppling over as well.

Peter reaches out for you, pulling you back to him as Derek thumps on the floor. His knees bend to steady himself as you fall back into his chest. His arms throw themselves around your middle to help keep your center of gravities the same as you find your footing. You wrap your own arms around his, clinging on until the fall has stopped.

Derek looks up at you from the floor with betrayal in his eyes and it takes even you a moment to process the fact that you took Derek down and not Peter. You put your oldest friend on the floor instead of the villainous uncle who has tried to kill everyone previously. There is an absolute fear that starts filling you as Derek stares at you, watches the way Peter tightens his arms around you, hugs you to him.

“Told you she was good,” he chuckles having a very hard time not sounding proud. Derek breathes out heavily, frustrated and furious. Peter stiffens behind you and he shifts to cradle your forearm in his hand. All three of your eyes fall to your bare skin. Only when you look at it, see the claw marks, the scratches, the blood, does it start to sting and burn. “I think it’s time you leave, Derek,” Peter tells him, all humor dissolved.

“I…” Derek falters, the anger replaced by a regret and a guilt you wish he didn’t have. The whole situation breaks your heart.

“It was an accident,” you reassure him. “It’s okay.” He closes his eyes, his fists balling up as he uses them to push himself up.

“No, it’s not.” He doesn’t look at you as he stands up. He walks to retrieve his jacket from the chair and heads towards the door. Peter doesn’t fight you when you break out of his arms and chase after Derek.

“Derek, stop!” you call after him. He’s halfway out the door before he turns around.

“When you showed up yesterday wreaking of him and his place, I thought you were just sleeping with him,” he says, a stinging bite in his tone. He shakes his head as he gives one last look between you and Peter. “This is actually worse. At least if he broke your heart, you’d walk away from that alive.” He leaves you standing in the open doorway contemplating following him.

“Let him go,” Peter advises from behind you. “Let him cool down.” A heavy wave of depression crashes over you and you’re not entirely sure you won’t start crying. Peter puts a heavy, gentle hand on your shoulder. “It’ll be fine.” He gives a gentle tug, urging you back into his apartment. “Let’s get that arm bandaged up.”

He guides you back to sit on the couch before he goes off to get some form of a first aid kit. You hold your arm as the pain starts to kick in, trying to keep any of the blood from falling off your arm. Peter’s blood is already staining the carpet, but you really don’t want to add to it. Or get it on the couch. The very expensive couch.

“Let me see it,” Peter says when he returns. He didn’t stop to remove his tattered shirt or to clean himself up. He crouches down in front of you between your legs. He opens up the kit and puts it next to you so he can reach it. “Does it hurt?”

“A little, but it’s not bad,” you tell him honestly even though your voice sounds a little detached. “It doesn’t feel deep.”

“It’s not,” he confirms, holding your arm in his hands and examining it, twisting and turning it. “It should heal quickly.”

You don’t pay much attention to what he does after that. He cleans it and pats it dry. He tries to be gentle and even flinches when you hiss in pain. He moves quickly, stopping the bleeding and putting the antiseptic on. He covers it in a salve and wraps it in gauze, secures it and then leans back.

“How does it feel?” he asks when he’s finished. You nod absentmindedly.

“It’s good,” you say. He stands back up and moves the kit onto an end table. “Are you hurt?” you ask, realizing you didn’t even think to check with him. He smiles cheekily at you.

“I was healed before you even started bleeding,” he tells you.

“I’m sorry about all of this.” You look down at your hands, wringing them in your lap. He gives a curt shrug.

“Don’t worry about it. If I knew we were allowed to put him on the ground, I would have done it for you,” he jokes. You almost smile.

“I don’t even know why I did that,” you admit, watching as Peter sits himself down next to you. The couch bounces slightly with his weight.

“Good training, that’s why.” He doesn’t try to hide his pride this time and it’s hard not to smile at him. Even if Derek didn’t approve, you were proud you had actually been able to do what you did. “What do you want to do?” he questions.

“Well I’m not quitting,” you scoff. This all sucks and you’re not happy about hurting Derek, but you knew going into it that something along these lines would happen eventually. Peter smiles at you, approving of your answer. “Are you going to baby me today because of this?” You lift up your arm. “Make me take the day off?”

“No,” he answers. “I think some hitting and kicking is just what you need to make you feel better. Help me move the couch out of the way.”

–

He wasn’t wrong. Your arm hurts once in a while, but he makes a point not to go anywhere near it and the release you feel while sparring counteracts the pain. You train at half-speed today, taking things slow and easy which you’re thankful for. It’s been an emotionally draining 24 hours.

There’s one point where he rushes at you. You grab the torn fabric of his shirt and pull him, swinging him with his momentum and weight off to the side. The rest of fabric tears apart, leaving strips in your hands and gaping holes on his chest. He chuckles as he looks down at it.

He strips the shirt off with an amused grin, tossing the ratted thing off to the side of the room. Your eyes roam over his chest, for once not just ogling him. You’re looking for scars, wounds, anything from the previous fight. There’s nothing there of course, just smooth skin and muscle smeared with remnants of crusted blood. He raises his brow at you, waiting for you to finish looking him over before he comes back at you.

Sparring with him without a shirt is different. He feels smoother, firmer, hotter. You feel more of his skin, more of his body heat, more of him. It’s distracting and it makes you clumsy. He needs to give you multiple little warning growls to keep your attention focused.

It doesn’t work. Your balance is off just as much as your focus and one time he uses it to his advantage. You fall backwards, tripping over the front corner of the couch. The bastard had gotten you just in the right position to fall straight down onto it. What he hadn’t expected is your hand pulling on his own or the way your feet get tangled in each other when you flail.

In a mass of clumsiness and laughter, Peter falls with you. He manages to brace his hands on the couch so he doesn’t crush you, but he still lands on top of you. You’re laughing uncontrollably, all the tension from the day melting away with it. Peter is laughing above you, putting his weight onto his lower half, lifting his chest off of yours so it’s easier for you to breathe between your hysterics.

“Oh my god,” you wheeze out. “So much for being good at this.”

“You’ve had better days,” he agrees.

The laughter starts to die down. As it does, Peter shifts his weight off of you. He leans onto his side, slipping himself between you and the back of the couch. Without thinking about it, you turn onto your side as well to make more room for him. He’s got his bottom arm propping up his head and the other is slung across your waist, partly out of convenience and partly to make sure you’re not going to fall off.

A heat begins to replace the humor in the air. His thumb is absentmindedly grazing along your back and your legs remain tangled together, thighs and hips pressed against one another. Your arms are scrunched in to your chest, trying very hard not to do what comes naturally and touch him. If you touch him, splay your palms over his chest like you want to, you’re not sure you’re going to be able to stop.

Even with how much you can feel your stomach flipping around, even with the heat and the want rising into your body, you still feel comfortable. You may never understand how you’re able to feel both things simultaneously, but you do. And you like it. You let your head rest on the couch, staring up at his face and smile.

Peter simply gazes down at you, his eyes holding yours so even if you want to look away from him, you aren’t sure you can. His eyes are soft and relaxed. He watches you almost lazily and yet his gaze never lessens in its intensity. You can feel him looking at every inch of your face, every line and imperfection, and instead of feeling uncomfortable or insecure, he makes you feel admired. Your arms start to relax and your fingers brush across his skin.

His body tenses just slightly, your fingers cool against his warm body. You shiver when he slips his hand across your lower back and leans in closer to you, pressing his chest into your hand. You hold your breath when he gives you a gentle pull, bringing you in just a fraction. He breathes out heavily, shifting his weight again. He moves his bottom arm towards your head, nudging at you until you lift it and let him slide underneath you. You settle your head into the crook of his arm as he brings himself down to fully lay next to you.

“How’s that arm?” he asks softly. You release your breath and turn your head to look at it. The gauze is still in place, no blood leaking through.

“It’s good,” you tell him.

“Good.” Your heart beats slow, but strong. It feels hard in your chest, heavy, so unlike the light, fluttery feeling stirring in your gut. “Do you want dinner?”

“Dinner would be good.” Your voice is just barely above a whisper. It takes both of you a few more minutes before you’re ready to move, to break away from each other.

Peter moves first, practically making your heart stop as he pulls you to him, bringing you inches from his face. He rolls back on top of you and pauses for just a moment. He hovers over you for an extended moment, smiling down on you. And then he’s gone. He rolls off and stands up next to you.

He extends his hands to help lift you up like he’s done so many times. Your body feels heavy and you only make it to the sitting up part. He chuckles at your reluctance. You haven’t realized just how tired you are until now. He releases your hands, allowing you to just stay sitting.

“Why don’t I go start dinner and you rest?” he offers. You smile thankfully at him and nod.

“Sounds like a plan,” you agree easily. “And put on a shirt, would you?” He chuckles again. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he mocks. You watch as Peter walks towards the kitchen. He gives you one more smile over his shoulder before he disappears. 

You take a deep breath and lift your arms over your head, stretching out. Your arm aches slightly. When you bring it back down, you run your fingers over the gauze. You’ll need to talk to Derek. Soon. Maybe when you get back home tonight. Maybe tomorrow. But sometime soon.

You flop yourself back down onto the couch, head resting on the armrest. You only mean to rest your eyes, relax a little bit. Your mind slowly starts to drift off though. Before you even realize it, you’re falling asleep.


	14. Heat and Guilt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You spend some time with Peter after you wake up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little shorter, but I wanted to get it out. Also - from my warnings/labels on Tumblr: "Peter’s Penis. Pretty sure that’s all the warning you need."

You don’t open your eyes when you start to wake. You stretch your body out and a couple of things become apparent. You’re not in your bed. There’s a soft blanket draping over you. Someone’s legs are under your feet. Somewhere in the back of your mind you recognize that you’re probably still on Peter’s couch and Peter’s thighs are most likely the firm muscle you’re stretching out on. 

You lift your arms over your head, arch your back, mind still hazy and full of sleepy fog. You work out the cricks in your knees, bend them and brush your feet across his legs. One of your feet floats back down and the arch of it presses down onto something thick and curved. There’s a single pulse from it before his hand snaps down onto your ankle, pulling your foot away and letting out an involuntary groan.

Your body stiffens with surprise as you realize your foot had slipped up his lap and into his groin. You’re definitely awake now. You would withdraw your feet and crawl to the very end of the couch in an attempt to hide in embarrassment, but he’s still holding your ankle.

“Sorry,” you mumble after debating feigning sleep still. His grip loosens and his thumb strokes your skin. You briefly wonder if you’ve shaved recently.

“Could have just asked if you wanted it that bad.” You can hear the smirk, the cocky, in his voice. If you had a pillow, you’d throw it at him.

“Oh shut up,” you laugh a little too forcibly. You finally open your eyes and see the room is dark. The only light is coming from the end table next to Peter, shining a soft yellow light onto his lap where he’s holding an open book and your leg.

“What? It’s not like I haven’t smelled the lust coming off of you.” For the life of you, you can’t tell if he’s joking or not and you can feel the flush of devastating embarrassment crashing down on you.

“You have not,” you challenge him. You pull your feet back to your body and start to sit yourself up.

“You’ll never know,” he chuckles and puts a bookmark into his book before setting it aside.

“What time is it?” you ask, both curious and desperate to change the subject.

“Shortly after eight,” he responds, leaning back into the couch and stretching his legs out. You wonder when he slipped under your legs and started reading.

“God, I’m sorry,” you apologize. “You should have woken me up.” You put your head in your hands and rub your face. You feel like you should get up, be trying to rush out his door just out of politeness for overstaying your welcome, but honestly, you don’t have the motivation.

“You needed the rest.” He shrugs and watches as you continue to stretch your body out. It was only a few hours, but you already feel better, rejuvenated. “If you’re hungry, I saved you a plate we can heat up.” 

“You didn’t have to do that,” you say. He just throws you another shrug.

“Just let me know whenever you want it.” If you had any urge to hurry up and leave, it vanished when he said that. The statement implies that he expects you to be hanging around a while longer and you’re not in the mood to disagree or fight it.

“What are you reading?” You nod towards the book by his side.

“Ishmael,” he answers, flipping it over. “Been a long time since I’ve read it. Thought I’d pick it back up.” 

“What’s it about?” You reach over and pick it up, turning it over to read the very vague back cover. 

“It’s a philosophical book about saving the world.” He sits up and watches as your eyes read over it.

“Sounds deep.” You’re not sure if it surprises you or not. Peter doesn’t seem like the kind of man who would read something with little substance, like a cheap horror novel, but philosophy wasn’t what you expected either. You hand it back to him and he puts it on the end table.

“It’s quite good. A lot more attention grabbing than you might think.”

“You trying to learn how to save the world?” you tease him.

“Well,” he drawls out the word with a shrug. “I’m supposed to be one of the good guys now. Might as well educate myself.” He stands up and throws you a wink before brushing by you to walk into the kitchen. You smile and follow him.

He pours himself a cup of coffee and then holds the pot up in offering to you. You nod and he pulls another mug from the cabinet and pours you a cup. You walk up to him and steal the cup from his hands before he has a chance to add in your creamer.

“You don’t always have to make me my coffee, you know.” The mug is warm in your hands, not enough to sting, but almost. You realize when you swept in to take your coffee, you ended up much closer to him than you realized. There’s enough space to hold the mug between you and that’s about it. He doesn’t seem to mind.

“Isn’t that what gentlemen do?” He says it with a teasing sparkle in his eyes.

“Is that what you are, Peter Hale?” You put the mug down on the counter next to you and lean your hip into it. “A gentleman?” He breathes in deeply and slowly, his eyes smoothly rolling down your body. His spine straightens out and his shoulders shift as if he’s repressing a shiver. His eyes drift back up to yours and this time you don’t resist the heat that’s filling you, don’t look away from him.

“Not with these thoughts, I’m not,” he says roughly. He leans his body in just slightly and god  _dammit_ if you don’t just want to throw your arms around his neck and kiss him. It’s the first time you can actually see the heat you feel reflected in his eyes; that hungry, longing look. You’ve always wondered if his flirtatious manner, his suggestive comments are just a power play, but right now you can actually see the want.

But then there’s this train of guilt that comes out of nowhere and pummels your chest. The butterflies turn to sick little needles and the desirable heat flooding you becomes uncomfortable. You thought maybe with Derek being angry at you already, it would make this (whatever  _this_  is) easier. Instead, it makes it worse. It would just be another knife in his back.

Peter senses the change you’re having, maybe he can even see it on your face. He transitions smoothly, leaning back away and picking up his coffee up. He takes a sip and throws you a wink over the edge of it. No hard feelings. You smile in return.

While you make your coffee, Peter pulls the plate of food out of the fridge and starts reheating it for you. He drinks his coffee as you eat. You talk easily, the conversation pleasant. More and more, spending time with Peter is starting to feel like spending time with a friend. Time moves by swiftly and the next time you look at the clock, it’s nearing eleven.

You’ve moved back to the couch, chatting softly in the dim light of his lamp. You pull out your phone to check your messages and see the time. Between the coffee and the nap, your body has given no warning that it’s been getting that late. You have a strong feeling that Peter would have no problem with you spending the night again and while you’re having a good time and the idea of the offer is tempting, you know you should go home.

“I should probably get going,” you comment after putting your phone down. Peter doesn’t fight you on it. He stands up and helps you gather your things. “I’m going to try to call Derek tomorrow.”

“Don’t be surprised if he ignores you for a while,” he tells you. “He’s stubborn and stupid sometimes.”

“Must run in the family,” you joke. His hand comes up to his chest and he fakes a wounded look.

“I’m offended,” he exaggerates. You give him a pointed look and a playful eye roll. “And Derek’s worried about me hurting you. He obviously doesn’t know you.” You throw your bag over your shoulder and scoop up your coat.

“Oh and you know me oh so well, right?”

“Better than he might suspect.” His tone drops down a notch, a serious mask under his sarcastic nature. “Call me tomorrow,” he says as he starts walking to the door. “We can set up our next session.” He pauses to face you before opening the door. You can tell he’s not just interested in scheduling. He wants to know what Derek says. Whether it’s just plain nosey or because he cares, it makes you chuckle.

“Will do,” you promise. He opens the door and the cold air hits you. Goosebumps rise up on your skin.

“Let me know when you get home,” he says as you walk out. You turn back to look at him and get that warm, fuzzy feeling in your body again. It’s not much, but it’s a gentle reminder to you that he actually cares. He wants to make sure you make it home.

“I will.” You smile gently at him. “Goodnight, Peter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am changing this story's rating to M. There will be lots of sexual stuff and probably smut later on.


	15. Bait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You make phone calls to Derek and Peter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally going to be longer and include the scene at Deaton's. But Tumblr voted they wanted this part now. So here it is. I hope this is okay. I feel like the reader goes from sad and questioning to turned on and all in way too quick… But it also felt kind of natural. I don’t know. Let me know if you think it’s too much.

It takes three phone calls and four texts over the span of two hours before Derek finally answers you. The sound of his voice over the phone actually startles you. You thought it would take longer.

“I’m not interested in talking,” he says sharply. 

“Then just listen,” you say quickly, recovering from the shock of hearing him. “I just want to be able to be there for you guys. I want to be able to help, to protect the people I care about. And I want to be able to protect myself. I  _hate_  being the damsel in distress, the little, fragile human. How would you like sitting on the sidelines? How would you handle just watching everyone else and doing nothing?” 

There’s a long pause. The only thing filling the silence is the soft, crackling of the phone connection. It goes on so long that you wonder if he took the not talking seriously or if maybe he just set his phone down somewhere and left you talking to thin air. You’re about to start talking again, asking if he’s there, when his voice comes through.

“Why Peter?” It sounds so hurt, so broken that it pulls at your heart. Even though you’re normally one for pacing while you’re on the phone, you find yourself sinking down into a living room chair, feeling heavy.

“There wasn’t anyone else,” you answer honestly as you sigh. “You would have said no. You would have reacted just like this and if I did get you to agree, you’d take it easy on me. I want to be prepared. I need to know what it’s like when someone throws you to the ground. I need the bruises.” Derek gives no response. “And Peter has skills you don’t. I don’t mean it as an insult, but his record on winning is better than yours.” You say it gently, trying not to bruise his ego any more than you already have.

“You trust him.” It’s not a question. It doesn’t have to be. If you saying it out loud before wasn’t proof enough, yesterday solidified it. “But he’s manipulating you. He’s building you up, making you think you’re friends, that he wants you around. He’ll make you his little sidekick, his partner in crime, and then when opportunity hits, he’ll lie to you. He’ll say he needs you to do something because he trusts you, only you. And you’ll do it. You’ll go blindly into a fight that’s way over your head and when you turn to him, he won’t be there. You’ll be bait so he can get what he wants and leave unscathed.” His words hurt. Your chest compresses and your breaths are harder to take. You can feel tears prickling at the back of your eyes, stinging your throat. “He doesn’t care about you.”

There’s more silence as you try to compose yourself. It’s convincing. It sounds like something Peter would do without a single doubt. Going into this, it’s what you’d expected even. But now things are different. Or at least they seem different. Would you even know if it was all just a manipulation?

“I know the risks, Derek,” you tell him before clearing your throat. “It’s my mistake to make.” There’s a part of you somewhere that’s telling you it’s worth it, that you’re right, but you’re not about to tell Derek that.

“I can’t lose you,” he finally admits. “I’ve lost enough family and I refuse to let him take you.” You really wish you were talking in person. You want to reach out to him, throw your arms around him and hug him tight.

“Derek, you know I love you.” Honestly, you don’t know if you’ve ever  _told_  him that, so maybe he doesn’t know. “I’m trying to stay alive, not get myself killed. I promise I’m being careful. I promise that if anything doesn’t seem right, if I feel even the slightest bit off, I’ll turn around and run. You’re not going to lose me unless you push me away.” You can hear him sigh on the other end and you wipe your eyes.

“I don’t like it.” A short laugh falls out of you before you can stop it.

“You’ve made that pretty clear.” The silence is easier now, lighter. He’s never going to agree to it, never condone it, but this is as close as he’ll get.

“Deaton has some sort of news. You guys should meet us there in an hour.” You nod even though he can’t see you. It’s progress. It’s an acceptance and you’ll gladly take it right now.

“See you in an hour.” Derek says a short goodbye and you hang up the phone. It’s not much, but you feel better. Sort of. You feel better knowing Derek is okay. However, the dark cloud of doubt he brought up over Peter is still weighing pretty heavily. You push it aside and dial Peter’s cell.

“Good Morning,” he greets lazily. You can practically see him lounging on his couch in sweatpants, reading his book. 

“It’s almost afternoon,” you tell him, glancing at the clock. 11:34 AM.

“But not yet. Get ahold of my nephew?” he asks, cutting right to the point.

“I did.” Just hearing his voice puts you at ease somehow. You’re not sure if that’s comforting or makes you even more nervous. “We’re okay as long as you don’t use me for bait,” you try to joke.

“Use you for bait? You’d make awful bait.” He says it so seriously that again, you’re not sure if it’s comforting or nerve wracking. “What in the world would I try to catch with you?” He says it with a little more humor this time and it makes you smile.

“God only knows,” you chuckle at him. “We’ve got to meet everyone at Deaton’s in an hour.”

“Oh?” You can hear the intrigue in his voice.

“He’s got news. That’s all I know.” You find yourself standing up and starting your regular routine of pacing around the room, the heavy weight having been lifted. “I say we see what’s going on and we can set up our next session after?”

“Sounds like a plan,” he agrees. “So what else did Derek say?” You were hoping he’d have dropped it, but no such luck.

“What was to be expected. You’re bad. You’re manipulating me. You’ll use me.” You try to say it casually, to brush it off and move on. 

“Well,” he drawls, the casual shrug evident in his voice. “I can be pretty bad, but I’ve got no interest in manipulating you.” He waits for it, knows you’re going to ask. You already know his response is going to some kind of innuendo, but you can’t help but say it anyways.

“What about using me?” The dark, flirtatious chuckle he gives sends little tingles down your spine.

“Sweetheart, you  _know_  there’s plenty I’d use you for.” Maybe it’s because you’re not face to face or maybe the little tingles are just too addictive, but you find yourself being bold. 

“Like what?” Your pacing stops and you can feel your body start to heat up. He doesn’t answer right away, like he’s debating how he wants to respond. “Like what, Peter?” you repeat a little more firmly. You barely hear the whisper of a growl and it reminds you of last night. It’s the same kind of growl as when your foot brushed across him.

“Bad idea to go there, little girl.” You always thought the term was insulting, but when it comes out of his mouth in that dark, tempting way, all it does is turn you on. You lick your lips and swallow to soothe your drying throat.

“You started it,” you remind him.

“We don’t have nearly enough time for me to detail it like I want to.” You find yourself pressing your legs tightly together. He hasn’t actually said anything overtly sexual but the implication that he  _wants_  to relay all the dirty things he could do to you is enough make you squirm.  _Fuck_. Where did the depressing cloud of doubt go? You could use it right about now. “You should go get ready,” his way of ending the conversation, not letting it go farther. It’s more disappointing than you expected.

“I suppose I should. I’ll see you there?” He lets out a low hum as a response before your goodbyes are said.

It’s only after you hang up that you feel your heart thudding deeply in your chest and feel the rush of attraction driven adrenaline flowing through you. You wonder when exactly it happened. When did it go from teasing you to actually wanting you? When exactly did you go from rolling your eyes to pushing back at him?

You remind yourself of everything Derek said, of everything that Peter is. He’s shown signs of affection, signs of caring, but what if Derek is right? What if he doesn’t care? It could be all a game. Then again, you don’t have to care to have an attraction and right now, whether he actually cares or not, whether Derek’s right or not, you want to play his game.


	16. Good Decisions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pack meets to discuss their next steps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was the second part to the last part so to say. And I absolutely hate the second half of it. I read it and I physically hate it. So I’m sorry if it’s awful.

You take a deep breath before walking into Deaton’s. You’re still nervous about seeing Derek and Peter together. A part of you feels relieved that it’s out in the open, but the other part is even more nervous that one of them is going to snap and start another fight.

You’re not the last one there this time. When you arrive, it’s just Scott, Derek, and Deaton. Deaton is splaying out some books and papers on a table while the other two sit on stools and wait. When Derek sees you, his look is soft, almost apologetic. Or one of pity. It’s kind of hard to tell.

“Everyone is on their way,” Scott says, unknowingly sparing you from having to decide which one of them to speak to first.

“This isn’t going to be good new, is it?” you guess. Scott shrugs.

“Good new usually doesn’t follow the finding of a dead body.” He and Derek glance at each other. They both look tired and worn out. If you had any second thoughts about training and learning to fight, that would be the sight that solidified your decision. They need more help.

You wait patiently for everyone else to get there. Peter is, of course, the last to arrive. Honestly, even though he wasn’t late, you’re surprised that they even waited for him. When Peter enters the room, his eyes fall first to you. He gives you a subtle wink before looking at Derek a little too smugly. He stays polite and keeps his distance from you, standing across the table instead of sliding up next to you.

“Victim was Jeremy Hitcher,” Stiles announces, slapping down a manila folder you suspect he stole from his dad’s office. “32 years old. He was an accountant.” Stiles spits out the word like it’s disgusting.

“Meaning what?” Derek questions, picking up the folder and flipping through it.

“He was human,” Lydia interjects. “No supernatural connections as far as we can tell.”

“So he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time?” Scott questions, remorse in his voice.

“Or not,” you say thinking out loud. Derek raises an eyebrow at you. “You said some people keep these things as pets, right?” you confirm with Deaton. He gives a single nod. “Maybe whoever owns the Cerberus didn’t like Jeremy,” you propose. “Maybe someone wanted him dead.”

“Who the hell wants to kill an accountant?” Stiles chimes in and Lydia shrugs casually at him. 

“Someone who got screwed on their taxes,” she retorts. You let out a small laugh. Leave it to Lydia to bring adult logic to a supernatural situation.

“Or maybe the idiot stumbled upon something he shouldn’t have and summoned it himself,” Peter casually throws out. He nods his head towards you. “She’s right. You can’t just assume the fact that he’s human means he’s no longer a clue.” His lips tilt upwards in the smallest bit of a smile. “Humans can be helpful.” You can see Derek’s hands tighten on the papers he’s holding.

“Deaton,” he says a little more harshly than he probably intended to. “What news did you have?”

“Judging from the size of the print, the claw, and the wounds,” he starts, walking up towards the table as everyone listens. “I think it’s a safe bet this is a Greek Cerberus.”

“There’s more than one kind?” Allison asks.

“Yes. Greek, German, even the Japanese have their own version.” Deaton opens one of the books to a bookmarked page. It’s an old book with yellowing pages and a black and white picture of a blurred, shadowy looking dog.

“And that means?” Derek eggs Deaton to continue talking.

“It’s most likely tied to someone as a pet as we suspected, it is territorial, and it can’t be killed.” The room falls deathly silent.

“Please tell me we can at least send it back to hell or something?” Deaton chuckles at Stiles desperation. It reminds you why he used to creep you out when you first met him.

“Something like that,” Deaton confirms before opening another book.

He spends the next fifteen minutes explaining in more detail than necessary the steps it’s going to take to send the Cerberus back to the spirit world. This includes breaking the bond between owner and pet, wounding the Cerberus with a blood laced sword, and some weird Greek symbols. Most of it makes your head spin.

Lydia and Stiles agree to dig into Jeremy’s life and see if he had any enemies, including anyone he had screwed on taxes. No one expects them to find anything, but it’s worth looking into. Derek and Scott make a plan to investigate the woods a little more thoroughly which you’re not a fan of, but they don’t make it sound like an optional excursion. Everyone else is basically told to sit tight and keep an open eye.

“How’s your arm?” Derek asks softly as people start to shuffle out of the back room. You glance down at it, the scratches and bandages concealed bulkily under a long sleeved shirt.

“It’s really okay,” you tell him honestly. You know he’s not going to believe you, but you try anyways. “It doesn’t even hurt.”

“Has he given you our family salve?” Derek looks across the room, watching as Peter lingers by the doorway, not hiding the fact that he’s waiting for you.

“The gross smelling stuff that feels like liquid magic?” you laugh and are relived when Derek cracks a smile back.

“Yeah, that would be it.” It’s nice to see him smiling with you again. It feels like forever since you had been able to laugh together.

“He makes sure it goes on every bruise I get.” You flash your smile Peter’s way, sure that he’s listening in.

“Call me if you need anything,” he tells you seriously. You put your hand on his forearm and give it a small squeeze.

“The same goes to you.” He gives you a nod and even though you know he won’t, it makes you feel a little better about it all.

As you walk away, you can tell he’s glaring at his uncle just from the way Peter’s smirk extends past you. You give him credit for not doing something like throwing his arm around you as you walk out though.

“So when’s our next run in the woods?” you ask as you both step outside, the cold air starting to sting your face.

“I think we better stay out of the woods for a while.” He walks with you up towards your car.

“Peter,” you complain. “You’re not supposed to be babying me.”

“I’m not,” he insists. “The Cerberus has your scent. Unless you want to draw the damn thing right to you and get yourself killed, it’s best we keep out for the time being.” Hearing it put like that squashes any desire you had to go out there. He’s right and you know it. You let out a small laugh as you reach your car and turn to face him, leaning back on the door.

“Well, at least now we know what you could be planning to use me as bait for,” you laugh and he lets out a low chuckle.

“I guess so,” he agrees, stepping up to you and making the space between you two very small. You honestly can’t tell if the shivers going down your spine are from him or the cold. “Just got to figure out how else I want to use you,” he teases. 

“You know, everyone is so worried about me,” you say lightly, trying to keep the line of conversation a little more innocent. “Maybe they should be worried about you.” Peter braces one of his hands on the car behind you, leaning in closer, but still leaving the option open to sidestep him if you want.

“Me?” he questions. Though his tone takes on the light nature yours does, the way he’s watching your lips move projects a different feeling.

“Maybe I’m the one tricking you, using you for my own benefit.” You tilt your head back playfully, acting proud. Really, you’re just trying not to watch him.

“And how are you doing that?” he pushes. His eyes haven’t come up from your lips yet, though his leaning in has paused.

“I don’t know yet.” You stumble for an answer. You’d probably have thought of something cleverer if you couldn’t feel his body heat starting to seep through your jacket.

“Ahhh,” he draws the word out. “See, there’s the difference.” His eyes finally slide up to meet yours and suddenly you wish you had something to do with your hands besides keep them awkwardly at your sides. “I know exactly what I want to do to you.” His voice gets quieter, huskier. “In great detail.” The feelings from your phone call this morning come flooding back.

“I thought that was a bad idea?” you question softly. He gives a half a shrug. 

“I’m not known for making good decisions.” 

If you weren’t standing in a parking lot, if you didn’t think there was a chance Derek was able to hear you, if it wasn’t freezing outside, you might have kept pushing and playing with him. You might have convinced him to whisper all those details in your ear and let yourself melt into him. But this was not the place.

“I’m free tonight,” you tell him, practically blurting it out while you try to change the subject. He raises an eyebrow at you. “For training,” you clarify. He lets out a chuckle and starts to lean away from you.

“Tonight it is.” His face molds into something a little more serious. “Once I can find a safe area outside, I want to start working on some recon and rescue sessions, but for now we’ll sharpen up your hand-to-hand.” By the way he says it, you highly suspect you’ll be sore and bruised tomorrow. You strangely look forward to it.

As he turns to walk back towards his car, you ask, “What are you doing the rest of the day?” He turns back to look at you with intrigue.

“No concrete plans. The apartment could use a good cleaning.” You imagine Peter in an apron and latex gloves and try not to laugh.

“Do you want to… hang out?” The words sound as weird as they taste on your tongue. It’s not like you hadn’t just sat around and talked before, but  _asking_  if he wants to? It’s weird. You can tell it’s just as weird to him by the split second confusion washing over his face. “Friends do that, right?” You have to let out a desperate huff of a laugh at how awkward it is. Thankfully, he returns it.

“Does that make us friends?” he questions, not really sure how he likes the sound of that either.

“Well, I put my best friend on the ground for you and you made sure I didn’t die so I think we’re definitely something.” He tilts his head in a nod and smiles. He gets too much satisfaction out of remembering you hitting Derek.

“I’ve got an errand to run you might enjoy,” he offers. You nod in acceptance and then look awkwardly between him and your car. “Leave it,” he tells you. “I’ll drop you off to get it later.” He turns on his heel, leaving you to follow him.


	17. Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter takes you on an errand with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience in getting this part out. I was finishing up some Christmas prompts on Tumblr.

The inside of Peter’s car is clean and neat and just like his carpet, you’re weary of putting your muddy shoes down onto it. You bite the bullet though and are oddly relieved when he doesn’t even throw you an annoyed glance. What he does do is hit the button for your seat heater after starting the car.

“So where are we going?” you ask as you buckle your seatbelt. He smiles as he pulls out of Deaton’s parking lot. 

“You’ll see.” You glance at him from the corner of you eye and wonder briefly if you should be worried. You’re definitely intrigued though.

It only takes about ten minutes before he pulls into the parking lot of the largest bookstore in town. A smile breaks out on your face and Peter shrugs at you.

“Told you, you’d enjoy it,” he chuckles. He walks besides you through the parking lot. Your arms bump into each other as you move, but neither of you move away or apologize. Touching each other has become a second nature instead of an awkward occurrence. As you approach the doors he tells you, “Go off and browse. I’ll find you when I’m done.”

You don’t need much more encouragement than that. When you walk through the doors, you head straight for your favorite book. It’s a dumb habit you have. Every time you go to any bookstore, you make sure it’s there. If it’s not, you ask for it, make sure to show interest in it. It’s your way of showing appreciation to the author, trying to make sure they get some shelf space. Peter had poked fun at you when you told him about your little ritual a couple days ago.

It’s in stock and you run your finger over the spine, smiling. It really deserved to be read by more people. You step back and browse the other titles around it. Nothing in particular catches your eye and you start to wander around.

A couple aisles down you find a book with a full moon and a wolf on it. It’s a young adult novel titled  _How To Be A Werewolf_ and it makes you chuckle to yourself. It’s full of incorrect lore and some tragic teenage love story sprinkled with pages of a “guide” on how to handle transformation. You make note of it and consider buying it for Peter or Derek as a joke. You can imagine them opening it up with a little pink post-it note on the cover where you’ve written  _Because you suck at it._

You put it back, still smiling at your idea and turn to look down the aisle. You can see Peter across the store, a book in hand and reading the back cover. He looks so normal here. With jeans and a black jacket, he blends in with every other human and it suddenly seems to make sense how the Hales managed to blend in with the rest of society.

You’re about to walk up to him, to make conversation and probably flirt if you’re honest. You actually  _want_  to be near him. There’s some kind of pull in your chest that urges you to stop just looking at him and go up to him. You like being around him more than you want to admit. But just as you’re getting your feet to move, some gorgeous blonde sweeps into view and starts talking to him.

You can’t hear them, but seeing is all you need. She leans her back against the shelves, arching her back just slightly and subtly pushing her breasts forward. You have to resist the urge to roll your eyes. Peter flashes her a wide, charming smile and that’s when the pull in your chest turns into a burn. The urge to talk to him quickly shifts to the urge to punch this random woman in the face. When she laughs, a sound that’s too loud and actually reaches your ears, you bite your tongue and stalk away. 

Peter finds you a little while later, after you’ve had some time to settle the uncomfortable anger in your stomach. He approaches you as you finish reading a random passage in a book and leans his shoulder on the bookshelf. It raises your spirits a little to know he didn’t spend much time with the blonde.

“Find anything of interest?” he questions.

“Nothing I’m looking to buy, but I found a few things.” You close the book and slip it back in its place before turning to look at him. He’s holding two copies of a book in one of his hands at his side. Your jaw drops open and you have to really hold back a bark of a laugh when you see them. “50 Shades of Grey?” He tilts the books up and glances at them. “Feeling lonely at night?” you tease, still trying like hell to resist laughing. A strained smile you’re trying to repress makes its way out.

“I always send Cora and Derek something special.” He smiles and the way he says  _special_  makes it clear he sends them gag gifts every year. You let your smile come out full-fledged as you imagine Derek blushing when he opens it and how Cora would roll her eyes as hard as she could. You also know they’d both open it up and read some of it out of sheer curiosity. “Like I would buy these for myself?” You gather yourself enough to look at him and shrug. His smile twists into a smirk and his eyes darken with a subtle tilt of his head. “I get my pleasures in other ways.”

“Like flirty blondes in bookstores?” You almost cringe at the bitterness in your tone. You didn’t mean to say it either. The damn words just slipped out before you thought about stopping them. It doesn’t seem to affect Peter though. There’s a soft huff of a laugh as he lets out a breath and he straightens out.

“No, lately I’m doing it myself.” He lowers his voice even though there aren’t people nearby at the moment. “And I prefer much more familiar faces to think about.” You can feel yourself heat up under his gaze. You try to take deep breaths, control the blush rising up in your cheeks. “Makes it more intense.”

 _Jesus_. Are you really standing here talking about what Peter thinks about when he gets off? Is he seriously referring to  _you_? Those deep breaths are starting to get caught in your throat. How the hell do you get out of this?

“Well that’s…” you have to pause to try to remember the correct words you want. “More than I needed to know.” You’re having a hard time not picturing Peter laying on his bed, hand between his legs, face twisted in pleasure. You manage to subdue it by internally promising yourself you’ll think about it later. His smirk stays in place, clearly satisfied with how he’s making you squirm. “Are you ready to go then?” He nods and steps to the side with a motion for you the walk first.

You stand in front of him in the line for the check-out. You fiddle through a turning display of bookmarks, keeping yourself preoccupied. Peter steps up behind you, reaching out casually to grab one and examine it.

“By the way,” he drawls, keeping his eyes on the random bookmark. “I know they say jealousy doesn’t look good on people,” He puts the bookmark back and leans down just far enough that his lips brush your hair. “But sweetheart, it smells damn good on you.” Before you can respond, the line moves and he steps away to follow it. He gives you a wink when you turn your head to look at him before his expression loosens and he gives you a teasing look. “I feel like you should be able to recognize my fake smile.” You shake your head and force a laugh. You push your hand against his arm in a little shove.

“Shut up, Peter,” you tell him. He laughs with you and keeps moving up with the line. “I wasn’t jealous,” you deny. You know it’s no use, that he’s an extremely accurate lie detector, but you do it anyways. He scoffs and lowers his brow.

“Sweetheart, I could smell you from across the room.” You really wish he’d stop calling you that. You’re starting to like it too much. You roll your eyes in an attempt to hide that fact. “Kind of hot actually. Attractive on an animalistic level.” You squeeze your eyes shut and hold up your hand to stop it.

“This is not what friends talk about,” you scold him. He smirks and gives you a casual shrug.

“Friends probably don’t have dirty thoughts about each other either,” he muses. “I don’t think I make a very good friend.” He tosses you another wink before the cashier calls out next and he walks away to pay for his books. You take a pause to gather yourself yet again before following him to the register. He pays with cash and you walk back to his car in silence.

The conversation on the drive back to Deaton’s to retrieve your car is comfortable and casual. The man goes from subtle and dirty to easy and nonchalant at the drop of a pin. You find some sort of ironic humor in that the flirty side comes out in public while the mundane and soft conversation flows in private.

“I can make lunch back at my place,” he offers as he pulls into the parking lot.

“One of these days, I’ll have to make you dinner,” you tell him as you unbuckle your seatbelt. “You’re always making me food. I should probably return the favor.” He smiles in response and pulls his car up next to yours. “I make one hell of a dessert too.” He raises an eyebrow at you and you realize it came out sounding a lot more suggestive than you meant it to.

“I bet you do,” he says lowly. You start to open your mouth and make sounds of protest, but he cuts you off. “You know, you don’t make a very good friend either talking like that.” You scoff and whack his chest playfully with the back of your hand. “You should be careful,” he warns. “I like it rough.” You bite your lip and despite your better judgement, you finally fire back at him. You look at him through your lashes as you purposely move your eyes down the length of his body.

“Yeah?” you breathe out. “So do I.” There’s a pause while he gauges you, decides if you’re just messing with him or if you’re serious. Honestly, you’re not sure which it is yourself.

“How rough?” he challenges. You press your legs together, body venturing into dangerous feelings while you’re around him.

“Let’s put it this way,” you say softly. “I’m not going to mind a few more bruises.” The way his eyes darken and sink in a little send a little jolt of pleasure straight between your legs. You rub them together a little harder.

“That’s your game,” he teases, pretending he’s come to a realization. “You didn’t want training. You wanted something to think about at night. I was an easy target.” You both laugh slightly, the tension is the air still not diffusing. 

“And what makes you think I’d think about you?” you question, turning your head away from him. 

“Well, don’t you?” You have no good answer. Saying no would be a lie, but you’re sure as hell not going to say yes to him right now. Instead, you let out another airy laugh and put your hand on the door to open it.

“I’ll see you in a little while, Peter,” you tell him, ending the conversation.

“You don’t set a good example for being friends,” he teases again in a more lighthearted tone. You step out of the car, but duck your head back in to look at him.

“I’m sure we’ll figure it out,” you laugh.

“See you soon.” He gives you a small wave that you return before closing the door. As he drives off, you stand in the cold and wonder exactly how long you’re going to be able to resist giving in. Another part of is wondering why you’re resisting at all.


	18. Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your training session ends in an injury.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holding on alright? Things will start to pay off in the next part, I promise.

Peter’s already in his kitchen by the time you arrive, having to had stop at your place to grab your workout clothes. He’s got a salad already made and is working on some pasta when you walk in.

Lunch passes easily with surprisingly friendly conversation and only light flirtation. You discuss your plans for the holidays. You explain how your family gets together and he explains how his family… doesn’t. It’s a little depressing to hear how he stays at home by himself on Christmas and you briefly try to see if you’d have enough time to stop by. He insists you don’t worry about it.

“Still want to get some training in?” he asks when you start cleaning up.

“Definitely,” you answer, putting your dishes in the sink. “I feel like I’m picking up my speed finally.”

“It’s getting better,” he agrees. “I’d still like to see your hits come a little quicker, but your reactions have really improved.” It’s hard not to grin, a sense of pride running through you with his words. “I’ll be holding back a little today though.” You squint your eyes and watch him as he puts things back into the fridge.

“Why?” you ask warily. He points a finger out his window to the sky.

“Full moon,” he explains.

“I thought you had control?” He closes the fridge and tilts his head sharply while giving a hard shrug. He’s more serious about this.

“Holding back  _is_  my control,” he says firmly. “Not looking to break your arm.”

“Well, I appreciate that,” you say honestly. You were going to say something about not minding a little pain, but with how serious he’s taking it, it doesn’t seem like the appropriate time. “Do we want to start now? Before it gets dark?” 

“Wouldn’t be the worst idea.” He walks up to you and gently pushes you away from the sink. “I’ll finish this. You go change.”

–

You can see why he has to hold back. He’s faster than normal, even during your half speed exercises. His holds are just a little bit firmer and stronger when he first grabs you. It’s only for a moment that you’d miss if you weren’t paying attention. The instant he has you, he consciously loosens his grip.

His eyes flash more often too. It’s seemingly random. Sometimes they change when you hit him or when you evade him. They change back quickly sometimes, but if one of you has the other on the floor, it takes him a couple of seconds to get them back to normal. You find yourself trying to find a pattern as you spar, but you can’t figure it out.

You throw your all into it, trying somehow to impress him. It works once in a while. You see it in his eyes. They narrow just slightly, almost sparkling with intrigue and pride at how you’ve learned, even when his nose is dripping blood from a head-butt. It backfires just as often though. You’ll try something fancy and he’ll combat it easily, toss you to the ground or sidestep you.

One of those times, he grabs your hand aiming for a punch and spins you into the wall. He slams your back against it and you let out a breathy groan as he holds your wrists to your sides, pressing closer to you. He slips one of his legs between yours to help pin you down.

“How’s that for rough?” he growls, leaning in and pressing his leg up just enough to make it clear it’s not just a training tactic. Your breaths come in heavy pants and you try to pull your body off the wall to gain some kind of advantage. He presses his chest to yours, stopping that immediately.

“You can do better than that,” you taunt as his nose bumps into yours. He smirks and hums softly before releasing you and stepping away. You wipe your brow, sweat coating your skin. His eyes are blue again. “Show me what you got, Hale.” He motions with his hands for you to come at him.

You rush him, hands up to defend yourself. He swipes his fist around, making sure you have time to duck away from it. As you duck though, he grabs your shoulder and spins you, toppling you off to the side. You lose your balance and start stumbling forward, headed straight for an end table shoved against the wall. You see it quickly coming closer to your face.

“Shit.” You hear Peter hiss right before there’s a hand wrapping around your wrist and yanking you back. Your limbs all flail as your body gets torn in the opposite direction of its momentum. Your feet roll over themselves and there’s a sudden, sharp pain in your right ankle as it bends awkwardly.

You let out a cry of pain as you crumble to the floor, Peter extending his arms to help slow your fall. You land on your back and you can already feel the pain in your ankle start to throb. You screw your eyes shut and grit your teeth.

“Damnit,” Peter curses as he drops to his knees next to you. “Are you alright?” You ball your hands into fists and dig your nails into your palm to put your mind somewhere else.

“Not the kind of pain I’m into,” you manage to say with a bit of humor.

“I’ll make note of that,” he says dryly. You can feel his hands on your ankle, examining it. “This is going to hurt at first,” he warns a split second before wrapping his fingers around it and tightly gripping it. The feel of him squeezing your sprained ankle shoots pain up your leg and you let out another cry, slamming your fist into his floor, the padded carpet giving an unsatisfactorily dull thud. “Easy,” he soothes.

The pain starts to fade enough for you to open your eyes. You look down at your ankle and see Peter’s veins bulging out of the skin of his hand, writhing in a deep black color. The color spreads up into his forearms before fading off and you swear you can actually feel the pain flowing out of you and into him. He doesn’t even grimace at it.

Your body starts to relax and your fists open up. With some effort, you bring yourself up onto your elbows to get a better look. Peter’s completely focused on your ankle, on absorbing all that he can. The pain is gone and slowly being replaced by a light tingling. You reach up and put your hand on Peter’s shoulder. It snaps him out of his focus and he takes his hands off of you.

He groans as the black in his veins fades away. He clenches and unclenches his hands, shaking the pain he’s taken. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment and swallows. He opens them back up with a shake of his head and blue eyes.

“It’s been a while since I’ve done that,” he says roughly, shifting his eyes back to normal. You take your hand off of his shoulder.

“You didn’t have to,” you tell him. “But thank you.” He sighs and stands up, extending his hands down towards you.

“It’s still going to be tender.” You put your hands in his and put your weight in your left foot to stand yourself up. You gently shift your weight to your right foot once you’re up. It threatens to collapse, feeling weak and sore. You hiss and grab onto his arms to steady yourself. “Let’s get you to the couch.”

You turn to start walking, but Peter sweeps his arm under your knees and supports your back with the other, lifting you into the air. Surprised and startled, you let out a small yelp as he carries you to the couch. He sets you down gently, being careful not to knock your ankle on anything nearby.

“Thanks,” you squeak out, still filled with that unexpected feeling. “I could have made it, though.” Peter seems to ignore you, eyes glazed over with a hardened worry.

“I’ll get ice so it doesn’t swell.” He’s out of the room before you can protest.

You let him care for you, pull the coffee table in front of you and elevate your leg before putting the icepack on it. You don’t argue when he rubs the salve on the lower part of your leg even though it doesn’t hurt anymore. He stays focused, eyes trained on your injury, letting a small, barely audible growl slip by once in a while.

When he’s satisfied and comes to sit beside you on the couch, you ask him, “Are you alright?” He doesn’t look at you, instead stares straight ahead across the room.

“I do not like you getting hurt.” It’s not a testament to him caring or a grand gesture. It’s a statement of realization and confusion. It’s something that he strains to say, strains to control right now. He drops his head to the side to crack his neck.

“Is that a bad thing?” you question carefully. He’s on edge which is something you haven’t seen in a very long time. You’re not afraid, but you’re not looking to make it worse.

“Not necessarily.” He waves his head to the side, resisting a sharp shiver threatening to crawl down his spine. “Just craving being able to do more.”

“What do you want to do?” You know you probably shouldn’t have asked. The sun is starting to set and while he’s got control, there’s something that’s starting to slip. His head snaps to look at you the moment the words leave your mouth and you suck in a deep breath when you see the heated look in his eyes.

“Make you forget about the pain,” he admits. “In a lot of different ways.” The flush on your skin was starting to fade, but right now it’s coming back in full force. 

“Thinking about slipping on a banana peel and making me laugh the pain away?” you joke with him. He chuckles and it seems to help him break the tension in his body. He relaxes into the couch and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“I’m not a self-sacrifice kind of guy,” he scoffs. You smile and start to flex your ankle, slowly stretching the remaining soreness away.

“Well, how about this?” You sit up a little straighter and move your leg off the table. Peter’s fingers twitch with an urge to reach out. “If you don’t mind, I could use a shower. The water will feel good and I don’t really want to travel home with your blood in my hair.” You run a hand through it and can feel his blood that had sprayed there after the head-butt starting to crust over. “How about I go shower and you take a minute to recollect?”

“Sounds like a good plan to me.”

–

Peter lets you walk yourself over to your bag and haul it into the bathroom with you. You turn the water on in the shower and give it a minute to heat up. You sit down on the closed toilet and take a few deep breaths.

You can’t even pretend to convince yourself that Peter would reject you right now if you walked out of this bathroom and threw yourself at him. He probably wouldn’t have rejected you even if it wasn’t a full moon, but since it was?

You try not to go there. You try not to let your mind wander through the conversations you’ve had today, about how he’s touched himself probably thinking about you, about if he was serious about liking it rough. You try like hell not to think about how rough he’d be if you walked out and told him you wanted him. Would he take you against the wall or would he manage to make it back to his bed? Just how hard would be pull your hair if he put you on your knees and took you from behind?

You can feel arousal start to tickle at your body and you take another deep breath. You tell yourself that it would be taking advantage of him right now, that he’s not in complete control, he can’t  _really_  consent… Try to make it as un-sexy as possible.

You stand up and strip out of your clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor for now. You shower quickly, shampooing the blood out of your hair and cleaning off the sweat on your body, making sure to be quick and calculated over any sensitive parts.

You dry off, placing the towel on what you’re still hoping is a towel rack and not a decoration. You rush through the motions of digging out your fresh clothes and redressing. You gather your dirty clothes pile and stuff them back in your bag in one handful before exiting the bathroom.

The sun has started to get low in the sky, almost disappearing. Peter is in the kitchen, fiddling around with pots and pans to make dinner. As much as you want to stay, you doubt it would be the safe choice right now. The more fun one maybe, but not the right one.

“Thanks for the shower,” you tell him, ruffing your wet hair.

“How’s the ankle?” he asks, eyes roaming over your body.

“It’s okay,” you answer honestly. “Still sore, but I can walk just fine. I’m going to go on home and rest it tonight.”

“Good idea,” he agrees. He’s still on edge, body tense and eyes a little wild. You walk, with only a slight limp, up to him and put your hand on his arm. He relaxes a little.

“I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about it.” His hand falls on your hip almost involuntarily. He takes a breath in through his nose and his voice darkens.

“You smell like me.” It almost comes out in a growl. He’s not angry. You’ve come to recognize his angry growls and recently, you’ve started to recognize his…  _frustrated_  growls. That was definitely a frustrated growl.

“Your soap,” you say dumbly. A soft smile comes to his face.

“I think I could figure that out.” His fingers curl into your hip before he lets go and steps back. “You should get going,” he urges.

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” you promise before leaving him. You retreat as quickly as you can to your car, not trusting yourself not to turn around if you doddle. Your body is still buzzing by the time you get back to your place.


	19. Full Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night of the full moon isn’t over yet.

After leaving Peter’s, you made yourself some dinner and did some basic chores around the house. It’s near ten o’clock when you decide to change into your pajamas and snuggle into bed. You’re sitting upright, ankle propped up on some pillows and reading a book when your phone rings.

The sound of the vibration on your wooden end table startles you slightly. You flip your bookmark into the page to save your spot and quickly grab your phone. You’re surprised and slightly worried when you see Peter’s name in big letters on the caller ID.

“Hey,” you greet cautiously. “Everything okay?” You can hear heavy breathing on the other end and it takes him a moment to answer. When he does reply, his voice is thick, strained, and heavy.

“You left your panties here.” Your stomach drops and you feel a blush creep its way onto your skin.

“Shit,” you curse. You must have dropped them when you put all of your clothes back in your bag. “I’m sorry. You can just put them aside or throw them out or whatever you want.”

“I went in to take a shower,” he says, voice completely distracted and ignoring what you said. “And I could smell you naked in there.” Is that supposed to make you mortified? Because it’s working. You sink down in your bed as if you’re going to be able to hide.

“You can smell that I was naked?” He holds in a groan on the other end.

“More like I could smell you in one place and smell your clothes in another,” he clarifies. “That wasn’t so bad.” He sounds both detached and hyper focused at the same time, his voice breathy. “But then… Then I could smell the heat, the arousal.” Your face turns red and you feel frozen in place. You want to hang up and go live in a hole. “And there they were on the floor. I could smell the wetness on them. I’m not the only one with dirty thoughts, am I?” He tries to hold back a strangled moan and that’s when your embarrassment starts to fade.

“Why’d you call?” you ask carefully. You assumed it had been to tease you or tell you he was upset you did something so careless. But now, after hearing that moan and connecting it to the sound of his voice, you have a different idea.

“I just needed to hear your voice,” he admits openly. It sounds needy, honest. “Fuck, the full moon hasn’t affected me like this in a long time.” He lets out a long, heavy breath, almost like a frustrated sigh.

“Peter?” He moans at the sound of his name coming from your lips and it sends heat straight between your legs. “What are you doing right now?” He chuckles darkly.

“Are you sure you want the answer to that?” You swallow, your tongue feeling thick and suddenly dry. You can feel yourself starting to ache, hoping to god that you weren’t somehow misreading all of this.

“What are you doing?” you repeat softly, your own voice taking on a husky, turned on tone.

“Thinking about you.” Your heart starts pounding in your chest and if that wasn’t enough to turn you into a puddle, he keeps going. “And stroking my cock with those panties of yours.”

“Fuck,” you moan out involuntarily. You’ve got a clear image in your mind right now of Peter sitting naked on his couch, slouched just slightly, head resting on the back of it, holding his phone to his ear with one hand and the other holding your panties against his hard cock, slowly gliding them up and down his length.

“They’re soft.” He doesn’t try to hide the lust in his voice now. “They smell like you. Intoxicating. Addicting.”

“How long have you been…?” Your voice trails off, unsure of what words you even want to try to use right now.

“You mean tonight or in general?” You imagine him slowing the pace of his hand, drawing it out now that he’s got you hooked. “Because fantasizing about you isn’t a new thing.” Your hand finds itself skimming the waistband of your sleep shorts.

“No?” you breathe out. You’d already all but confirmed that earlier today, but the blatant confession is intensely different.

“Hell no,” he sneers. “I’ve been thinking about what it’d be like to sink into you for a while now.” Your fingers slip past your waistband and down further to tease yourself.

“I’ve thought about it,” you admit softly. It sounds awkward when you say it, but you can practically hear the satisfied smirk in his next breath.

“I’ve smelled arousal on you before.” Your fingers brush across your lips, already wet with anticipation. You glide them back and forth, dipping one fingertip barely inside to tease the sensitive nerves there, sending pleasure through your core. “It smells so fucking good,” he groans and you arch your back as you roll your thumb over your clit, imagining him with his eyes screwed shut, mouth open, still running his hand over his cock. “Your scent is everywhere.” You can only wonder what that’s like for him with the full moon heightening his senses. No wonder he sounds so desperate.

“Is that why you’re using my panties?” He releases another strangled groan and you picture him squeezing himself a little tighter, twitching under his hand.

“They’re wet,” he tells you, ignoring your question. “Feels so good.” The image of precum leaking out his tip and smearing over the fabric, making it slick as he pumps it along his length is enough to make you give in to the craving and push your finger into your cunt. A moan slips out of you. “Are you-”

“Yes,” you moan out, not even letting him finish the question.

“Tell me.” You’re not sure if it’s a plea or a demand, maybe a little of both. You couldn’t deny him even if you wanted to.

“I’ve got my hand under my shorts, touching myself,” you say a little shyly.

“How?” he prompts, urging you to keep going, to be more detailed.

“I’ve got my thumb on my clit,” you say almost in a whisper. “One finger inside me.” You hear him let out a low, pleased growl that sends warm shivers through you. “I’m hot.”

“Oh, you have no idea how hot you are,” he growls out. “My cock is so hard.” Not for the first time, you think about what it would feel like in your hand, if it would fit perfectly, hard and thick, or if it’d be too big to wrap your fingers around, if you’d be able to feel his veins bulging and throbbing under your palm. You let out another soft moan which causes him to groan in response. “Fuck that pussy, sweetheart.”

“Oh, god.” You do what he says. You slide your finger in and out, letting your thumb slip away from your clit to let your palm grind against it instead. You quickly add another finger. The pleasure builds quickly in you and your eyes slip shut, picturing Peter.

“I want to hear you cum.” His voice is low and gravelly. You suspect he’s stroking himself faster, increasing his grip. For a moment, in your mind that’s all you can see; Peter’s face long and mouth open in pleasure, his thick fingers moving quickly, squeezing himself and gliding your panties along his long, hard cock. His hips twitch, giving into the pleasure. His back arches just slightly, almost bucking into his hand.

It doesn’t take long for your orgasm to build, for the tension in your core to snap. Your whole body tenses and quivers as you bury your fingers deep inside of yourself, feeling your walls clench around them. You let out a long, loud moan, riding it out, still grinding your palm into your clit.

“Fuck, Peter,” you cry. He grunts once and you can hear the tension in his voice before he lets out a primal groan. He doesn’t say anything, just makes that animalistic groan that threatens to turn into a roar and you know without a doubt he’s cumming. You keep your eyes closed, letting yourself see his cock throb, strings of white cum spurting out the tip and spraying over his toned stomach.

He breathes heavily on the other end of the line, coming down from the high of his climax. Your body feels tired and worn out, fingers wet and sticky as you drag them out of your cunt. You both stay quiet for a few moments, catching your breath. Then he slowly chuckles.

“I may have ruined your panties,” he says darkly. A new image rises up. You see him aiming his dick at his hand that’s holding your panties. He twitches and paints the crotch white with two shots of cum before the rest of it leaks out. He smears it into the fabric with his head.

“That’s okay,” you groan out. You swallow to try to clear your voice. “I’ve got plenty.” He chuckles again and you can’t help but wonder if he’s thinking about how many other pairs he could ruin. The high of the orgasm makes you a little giddy and you let out a small giggle. “If this is what it’s like every full moon…” you trail off, not really sure you should finish, afraid of sounding too serious or something. Thankfully, Peter returns your laugh.

“No,” he says. “Like I said, it hasn’t affected me like that in a long time.” Your first instinct is to ask what changed, why it’s happening. Was it you? You force the question away. It’s really not that important right now.

“Well, ummm.” You suddenly feel a little awkward. What were you supposed to do now? You just had some kind of phone sex with a man you haven’t kissed, a man everyone else you know hates, a man who now even after the orgasm, sounds completely irresistible. “I’m certainly not complaining.”

“Neither am I,” he says just a hair softer. There’s a moment of silence that threatens to fill with an uncomfortable awkwardness. “I need to clean to up,” Peter says, breaking that threat. You can feel your wetness drying on your fingers and realize there’s a little bit of sweat on your skin.

“I could use a quick shower,” you admit. He makes a rumbling growl and a lazy smirk falls on your lips. “What?” you tease. “Don’t need that mental image? Me naked, soaping my wet body?” He groans almost painfully.

“There’s almost seven hours left of the full moon,” he reminds you. “Don’t start it unless you’re going to finish it, little girl.”

“You’re the one who called me,” you laugh. “ _You_ started it.”

“Well I’m ending it,” he tells you, both of you chuckling. But then his chuckle dies and you can hear the smooth smirk in his voice. “For now.” Despite feeling spent and satisfied, your stomach still flutters at his words.

“Text me tomorrow? Set up our next session?” It seems like an appropriate thing to say. He sighs on the other end and you dare say he sounds happy and relaxed.

“I will.” You smile and lean your head back on the headboard. “Sleep well,” he tells you.

“You too, Peter.”


	20. The Dead Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next morning isn’t what you expect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting back into the swing after an awful start to the new year. I hope you guys are still interested! There’s still so much more to come.

You woke up the next morning feeling happy and nervous. It was so satisfying to have  _something_  happen with Peter even if that something hadn’t been physical. But the fact that it wasn’t physical, that you hadn’t actually seen him, made you nervous. What exactly were you supposed to do when you saw him next?

You expected awkwardness. You expected hot blushes and embarrassment as you tried to talk to him. You expected him to be smug and infuriatingly charming about it all. You planned to push through it, to talk to him, and figure out where to go. You secretly hoped it’d end in hot sex, but you weren’t going to push your luck.

What you did not expect though, was spending the day babysitting Stiles as he ransacked through a dead man’s house.

Derek had called you almost first thing in the morning. You hadn’t even had a chance to change out of your pajamas and barely finished your breakfast. He wasted no time with pleasantries.

“I need you on Stiles duty,” he barked out.

“What? Today? Why me?” you complained in a voice you didn’t want to admit was whiny. 

“Because he’s about to break into Jeremy’s house.” You squinted your eyes at nothing in particular and pinched the bridge of your nose.

“Wait, who?”

“The dead accountant.” You could hear the eye roll in his voice and resisted the urge to give him one back. “I’d do it, but I have other things that need to get done.”

“And you’d probably murder him,” you added. Derek let out a huff of air that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle. “Text me the address and I’ll meet him there.” When exactly did your life turn into one where breaking into a dead man’s house didn’t even warrant questioning? You tried not to think about it for too long.

So now here you are, a cup of coffee in your hand, watching Stiles dig through the drawers and cabinets of dearly departed accountant, Jeremy. Your main job is following him around and putting things back in place. You had started trying to wipe fingerprints too, but that got tedious and impossible and really wasn’t worth the effort. Perks of being friendly with the sheriff.

“You know, I don’t think this is what anyone else had in mind when we talked about looking into his life,” you comment offhandedly while checking your phone. You had texted Peter to let him know you’d be busy watching Stiles, but he never responded. Honestly, it made you feel a little rejected.

“This is the fastest and easiest way,” Stiles defends as he opens up a bedroom closet. “And since we aren’t law enforcement, we don’t need a warrant.” You take a sip of your coffee and then purse your lips.

“Pretty sure that’s not exactly how that works either.” He shrugs at you and pushes aside some clothes on hangers to delve deeper into the closet, maybe looking for a hidden door.

The sound of a door opening makes you perk up. There’s a small stab of fear in your chest as your heartrate starts picking up. You put your coffee down on the night stand and stick your head out into the hallway.

“Stiles,” you whisper. He pauses his search and looks over his shoulder at you, completely unaware. “Stay here and stay quiet,” you tell him. “Someone’s here.” He pales and his eyes widen. He shuffles a little further into the closet as you step out into the hall.

You walk on your toes, socks sliding easily along the hardwood. You had both left your boots at the back door, not wanting to track in mud. Pressing your back to the wall, you slowly slip down the hall, keeping your ears open. You mostly hear silence filtered between the sound of the heating system in the house blowing warm air through the vents.

When you start to approach the corner, you start to think maybe you had been hearing things, but then you hear the gentle sounds of footsteps and your hand automatically pulls the knife from your belt. You hold the handle in the fist of your hand, raising it up by your head and readying it.

You stop moving until the footsteps get closer and you can see the shadow of a person on the floor. When you strike, you let your new instincts take over. Your body twirls on the balls of your feet, spinning you around the corner quickly and forcefully. You start to bring the knife down once you’re face to face with the person there, but they grab your wrist faster than you can react. With one of their hands on your wrist and the other pushing your shoulder, they spin you back around and slam your back into the wall, pinning your hand and the knife above your head. Somewhere in the middle of all of this, you recognize Peter’s face.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asks. He sounds like he should be scolding you, but can’t hold back the humor. “What if I had been a family member coming to collect his things? You’re just going to kill them in cold blood?” As the jitters in your body start to die down, the adrenaline flushing out of you, you let out a small, relieved breath. Peter smirks and raises his eyebrow. “Looks like you’re more like me than we thought,” he teases. You let your head thump back against the wall.

“You scared the hell out of me, Peter!” you yell at him in a hushed voice. “What are you doing here?”  His grip on your wrist loosens a little bit.

“Making sure you and Stilinski don’t get hauled off in a cop car.” He cocks his head and smirks at you before letting go of your wrist. His hands drift down and rest gently on your hips.

“You could have warned me!” you complain, head still resting on the wall, willing your heart to stop beating so fast. You let your hand fall down to your side, but don’t sheath your knife yet.

“Now where’s the fun in that?” he whispers lowly. His eyes darken a little and you start to realize just how little space is between you two. He leans down a little and you find yourself pushing up off the wall to get closer.

It doesn’t last long because Stiles rushes out of the bedroom with a coat hanger in his hand, brandishing it like a deadly weapon. Peter rolls his eyes and pulls away, hands still on your hips. Your head thunks back against the wall.

“Ummm, sorry,” Stiles stutters. “Were you going to kill him again or…” he trails off, not quite sure how to take the scene and pointing to your knife. 

“Well she apparently was going to try.” Peter smirks and lets his hands finally fall from your hips. You didn’t realize how warm they had felt until they’re gone and the air feels cold around you.

“Didn’t I tell you to stay there?” You roll your head to look at Stiles and he shrugs.

“Thought you might need backup.” You can’t be angry with him. Not only is it adorable, but it’s sweet. You have no doubt that if Peter actually been someone attacking you, Stiles would have run to your defense, even with just a hanger as a weapon.

After clarifying that no one was going to be killing anyone, Stiles goes back to searching through the closet while you and Peter stand back and supervised. You sip at your coffee and Peter crosses his arms over his chest. 

“What exactly is he hoping to find in there?” he asks lowly.

“I don’t really know,” you admit. “Narnia maybe?” Peter chuckles and it brings a smile to your face. Things are a lot less awkward than you expected. It might be because there’s another person there which allows you to simply bypass and ignore last night though.

When Stiles is satisfied with his search of the closet, you put the clothes back in place and follow him into the living room. There’s a desk in the corner that Stiles starts rifling through. Peter strolls in behind you and sits himself down on the couch. You scrunch your brow at him.

“You’re still on the dead man’s couch,” you state. “Isn’t that a little disrespectful?”

“You mean more disrespectful than going through his house?” he counters, settling himself in comfortably. “Besides, it’s not like he’s going to be using it.” You wish you had some kind of response, but you don’t. You just stand there and shake your head.

Neither of you say much, but you keep looking at each other. You can feel his eyes on you, roaming over your body when you’re watching Stiles and trying desperately to look elsewhere. When you give in and look at him, he doesn’t look away. He just tilts his head and lets a small smirk spread over his lips which causes you to heat up. You hate how much he enjoys making you flush.

It’s hard to keep focused. Your mind keeps trailing back to last night and it’s almost impossible not to start picturing him and what he had been doing. One of his hands is resting high on his thigh and you have to stop yourself from staring down there. Stop yourself from looking for the curved outline in his jeans. Stop yourself from imagining his hand moving up over it. Stop. Just stop.

“Anyone know a Carl Slater?” Stiles speaks up, holding a stack of papers in his hands, flipping through them. You and Peter snap out of one of your staring contests and look towards him.

“Doesn’t ring any bells,” you respond. Peter simply shrugs as if the whole conversation is a bother to him.

“Well he was in the middle of suing Jeremy apparently.” Stiles’ nose is buried in the papers, eyes quickly scanning for any useful information. You leave Peter on the couch and walk up to Stiles to look at the papers with him.

“What for?” you ask.

“Tax fraud.” Stiles pauses. “Huh. Maybe Lydia was right,” he muses. “Maybe he screwed someone and they killed him.”

“Or he was just a bad accountant,” Peter mumbles. He has gotten off the couch and is standing at the window, moving the lacey curtains to the side and peering through. “And I suggest we get out of here. Woman outside is calling the police.” That snaps both of you out of your research state. You snag the papers out of Stiles’ hands and shove them back in the drawer. “Stiles,” Peter rumbles. “Please tell me that’s not your jeep parked outside.” You cast a disapproving glance at Stiles as his mouth flops open.

“It… might be,” he admits. Peter groans in annoyance.

“Everyone go out the back door.” He slips carefully away from the window and starts walking away. “Stiles, you go down a few houses and then circle back around to your jeep  _casually_ ,” he stresses. “Where’s your car?” He asks you, looking over his shoulder as you follow him.

“Parked a few blocks down.” He smiles at you proudly.

“Good girl.” You fight off the blush and the tingle his voice sends coursing through you.

“I need whatever training you’ve been getting lately,” Stiles calls out to you, trailing behind in the hall. Peter pauses and waits for you both to put your boots back on. “How To Be Badass 101 or something.” You and Peter throw a glance and a small smirk at each other, but don’t respond to him.

All three of you exit Jeremy’s house and pad across his back yard quickly, trying not to leave too many footprints on the way out. You pass through a couple more yards before deeming it safe to emerge back onto the main street. Stiles points in the opposite direction of where your car is.

“I’m going to circle back and pick up my jeep,” he says. “I’ll call Scott and tell him what we found.”

“Or didn’t find,” Peter says cynically. You feel like you should scold him, but you have to agree. You didn’t  _really_  find anything out. Stiles squints his eyes at Peter.

“Why do we invite you anywhere?” he asks pointedly. Peter smirks at him.

“Because I’m delightful,” he answers. Stiles looks somewhat baffled by the response, but shakes his head and lets it go. He turns his attention back to you.

“I’ll let you know if Lydia found anything online.” You nod and thank him. He turns and starts walking away, trying to look casual as he does so.

There’s a nervousness that sets in now that you’re alone with Peter. You avoid eye contact and make sure to keep walking. He looks down at your feet which you find strange, but you’re not about to question it.

“Your ankle looks good,” he comments.

“Oh,” you say in realization. You look down at it too. “I guess so. It hasn’t bothered me today at all. Kind of forgot about it.”

“Too busy thinking about  _other_  things?” he teases. He walks next to you, matching whatever pace you set. You bite your lip and look straight ahead.

“Maybe.” He chuckles darkly beside you. “Still think it’s a bad idea?” You can see your car parked down the street and start to slow your walk.

“Oh, I know it is,” he tells you. “Probably why I like it so much.” You bite down harder on your lip to keep from smiling as you approach the car.

“Should I be creeped out you stalked me today?” you joke, biding your time. He scoffs.

“You should be flattered I showed up to help.” You stop walking once you get to the driver’s side and dig through your pocket for your keys. “And maybe I just wanted to see you.” He says it softly and the butterflies rise up. There’s a twinkle in his eye and you can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or if there’s a sincerity to it. “We need to adjust your stabbing reflexes,” he says, instantly changing the subject. “Look before you stab before you kill poor Stiles or something.” You laugh and duck your head. 

“Yeah that wouldn’t be good,” you agree.

“We want prepared, not paranoid.” He reaches out and takes your wrist. He shifts you both so he’s standing behind you. His chest is pressing into your back and it’s slowly becoming harder to focus on what he’s doing. “And don’t come at them from above like this.” He raises your arm, mimicking your earlier stance. “It’s too easy to block and it’s what people expect.” He guides you lower by your waist and turns your wrist up. “Come from below.” He thrusts your hand forward. “Go right for the belly.” His breath is hot by your ear and you try not to lean too much into him.

“Noted,” you breathe out. His lips brush across your ear and send a shiver down your spine.

“Good.” He lets go of your hand, but doesn’t move away. “Free today for another session?” You nod and swallow hard.

“Just pick a time,” you say quietly. He presses against you a little hard just for a moment before breathing in deeply and slowly pulling away.

“Meet me in an hour or two?” You quickly agree and he flashes you a wink before leaving you at your car. You stand there for a few moments pondering just exactly how you’re supposed to spar with him when all you want to do is tear his clothes off. And how the hell is he so casual about it?

You open your car door and find a small bag on your seat. You open it up and find your underwear inside with a post-it note stuck on them.  _Washed. Twice._   _Sorry about the claw marks._  Sure enough, when you unfold them, there are a couple thin slashes through the thin fabric. You hadn’t even thought about his claws and if they had come out last night. You force yourself not to think about too long, don’t let yourself picture it for more than a flash.

You climb into your car and pull your phone out to shoot him a text.  _Quit breaking into my car._ You hit send and then laugh to yourself and type out one more.  _And why ask where my car is if you obviously already knew the answer?_  You put your phone down and start your car not waiting for a reply.


	21. Up Against The Wall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You struggle to focus during your next training session.

You hate how nervous and unsure you are as you knock on his door. You take a deep breath and tell yourself to relax. You’re here to train. The door swings open on your exhale and Peter looks at you like you’ve got an extra head.

“You knocked,” he states.

“Well the last time I didn’t knock, Derek was here and things blew up and you ended up with blood on what I can only assume is very expensive carpet,” you babble. “So yeah, I knocked.” Peter shakes his head amused and simply walks away from the door, leaving you to let yourself in.

“We’ll start with sparring,” he says as you close the door behind you and put your gym bag down. “And then end with some recon and rescue drills.”

“Sounds good to me,” you tell him. Honestly, you’re happy to get right into training. It saves you from having to go through the awkward standing-there stage wondering if you’re supposed to bring  _it_  up or not.

The warmup is simple enough; casual, regular. He puts up his palms and has you alternate punching them and then kicking them while he shifts their position. Then he starts sidestepping, making you follow him and move as you keep it up. You keep your focus on his hands, on how your body starts to warm up with the actions and how not to get your feet tangled.

When he’s satisfied, he tells you to get a drink and you start to think that maybe this is going to be okay. Maybe it doesn’t have to be weird. When you put your water bottle down and turn to face him again, you catch his eyes lingering on your ass. He doesn’t even hide it, letting them crawl slowly back up as they flash blue. He bares his teeth and then rushes towards you and you slip into an easy habit and fight him like normal.

Except it’s not normal at all. 

Every time he touches you, it sends a shock of fire through your veins and it’s so fucking hard to concentrate when he keeps looking at you like he heard you get off the night before. It’s all hot and steamy and his eyes keep rolling over you every chance he gets.

You try though. You throw your punches and dodge his. You search for something to look at on him, something that doesn’t threaten to turn you on, but it’s nearly impossible. His tongue keeps darting out of his mouth or he keeps biting his lip. The muscles in his arms flex with every move he makes. The thick muscles in his legs are no better.

At one point, just to try to snap yourself out of it, you charge him in a stupid fashion. It backfires entirely. He knocks your knees out and guides you harshly to the ground, straddling your legs, and pinning your extended arms down by the wrists. The bastard keeps you there, pauses as you wriggle underneath him trying to get back up.

“Your head’s not here,” he tells you, voice cocky and teasing. You breathe out heavily and attempt to blow some of your hair off your face. He hovers above you, thoroughly enjoying the frustrated look on your face.

“Get off,” you huff and arch your back in a frail attempt to buck him off of you. He chuckles darkly and pushes his hip harder into yours, making it clear you’re not going anywhere until he says.

“Watch your choice of words,” he advises. He brings his head down to your ear and whispers, “Might give a guy the wrong idea.” His fingers loosen around your wrists and simply rest on your skin. “And you don’t want to do that,” he breathes warmly on your neck. His fingers start trailing down the underside of your arms, gentle enough to tickle. “Unless you’re willing to follow through.” When he grinds down on you, it’s such a small and quick movement that you could probably convince yourself you imagined it. But it’s more than enough to make you squirm and bite your lip.

Peter lifts himself up quickly, leaving you lying on the floor. He tilts his head side to side, cracking his neck. You close your eyes and take a moment to breathe and calm yourself.

“You’re trying to kill me,” you say quietly as you start to pull yourself off the floor.

“I’m just trying to prepare you.” He says it seriously and you’re not sure if he’s talking about the training or about whatever the hell is going on with you two. You both watch each other carefully and there’s something stirring in your belly, something hot and bold. You stand up tall and slide your eyes over his body, openly letting him watch you check him out for the first time. 

“I wasn’t complaining.” Your voice is a lot sultrier than you’d ever heard it before. Peter draws his face back and rolls his chin in the smallest circle, looking like he’s holding himself back, resisting something.

“Keep going.” He raises his fists and smirks at you, urging you to attack. Not one to defy Peter right now, you continue sparring.

The feel of the spar has shifted after your little exchange. He runs you harder. He moves faster and attacks smoother. He takes every opportunity he can to put his hands on you and you find yourself doing the same. You’re out of breath and sweaty, but you keep going, holding heated stares through it all, never looking away for more than a moment.

You throw a punch and he ducks back, his hand darting out to grab your fist. Using more force than he needs to, he yanks on your hand, spinning you around and pulling your back to him. He wraps his arms around your middle, holding your forearms in tight to your body.

“Get out of it,” he breathes roughly in your ear, mimicking his words from your very first training session. You feel his hard chest against your back and his arms tighten around you. You lean your head back to draw in a deeper breath, ignoring that it would be a bad idea in an actual fight. His lips brush by your neck and you can feel his stubble scratch against your skin.

Your skin is on fire and you lean back into him, pressing your back and your legs flush against his body. He growls lowly and tightens his grip around you, holding you there and pressing back with you. You can feel his lips open on your neck as he hisses in a breath and then lets it fan out over you. Your eyes flutter closed and you relax in his arms.

“Get out of it,” he repeats a little less harshly.

“What if I don’t want to?” The words come out of you almost breathlessly. He groans into your ear as his lips trail up to it. You tilt your head to the side, making it easier for him and exposing your neck, leaning your head back on his shoulder.

“Don’t temp me,” he growls. You arch your back and press your ass into him. You can feel him hardening behind you and you have to hold in a moan. His teeth scrape across your earlobe as he bites gently on it. “Last chance.” It sounds slightly strangled, like he has trouble restraining it.

“Peter,” you moan out. His movements are quick, pulling away just long enough to spin you around again. He puts your back against the nearest wall and his hands fall possessively on your hips. Your hands rise up to his shoulders, fingertips digging into him and trying to pull him closer.

It’s barely a second before his body is pushed against you and his lips are crashing down. There’s no gentleness, no uncertainty or hesitancy. You’re both so far past that. The first taste of his lips is intoxicating. His fingers curl over your hips, pulling your pelvis to his as his mouth opens in the kiss. You let a moan escape as he grinds against you, pressing you even harder into the wall.

He groans, almost growls, when you wrap your arms around his neck and grind back. Your body is tingling everywhere and when you feel his cock rising up between your legs, you can actually feel yourself getting wet. He bites roughly at your bottom lip before darting his tongue out to soothe the sting.

His hands finally start to release your hips. He doesn’t waste time trying to be nice. He finds the hem of your tank top and slips his hands underneath of it, splaying his warm hands over the skin of your stomach. He lifts them up, following your ribcage and lifting your shirt with his wrists.

Even that is too slow for you. The blood and adrenaline rushing through your veins is making your skin buzz. The feel of his skin on yours is too addicting and you want more of it. Now.

Your hands come back to his shoulders and give him a hard shove. He takes a small step back, surprised and a little confused. It’s all you need. You cross your arms down at your waist and grab the bottom of your shirt. You yank it over your head and toss it to the side.

Peter watches you, eyes hungry and heated. He steps forward again, watching your hips collide and mesh with his. He slowly drags his eyes up your body. You arch your back, trying to feel more of him, his eyes on you driving you crazy. His mouth is open, breathing heavily, panting even, and you have a feeling you’re driving him just as crazy.

You put your hands on the sides of his face and guide his mouth back to yours. He kisses you hotly and messily. He grabs your hips again and pulls them off the wall so he can slide his hands around behind you to cup your ass. You start to fumble with his belt buckle, undoing it and yanking it through the loops of his jeans.

“Fuck,” he growls, grinding again, squeezing the flesh of your ass in his hands. “I’m going to ruin you.” All you can do is moan, the sound of his voice all husky and lust-filled turning into nothing but a puddle.

When your phone rings out into the room, breaking the silence you didn’t even know was there, Peter lets out a small roar in frustration. Your head drops back against the wall and you let out a heavy breath while you bite your tongue.

“Ignore it,” he tells you. You both know you won’t. Usually when someone calls, it’s important. You press another kiss to his lips before slipping away regretfully out of his arms. He stays where he is, putting his palms on the wall and hanging his head between them.

The caller ID reads  _Derek_  and you take a moment to gather yourself and clear your throat. You slide your finger across the screen to answer the call.

“What do you want?” It comes out a lot harsher than you meant to, but god dammit, you’re not staring at Peter’s jean clad ass as he tries to control his hard-on and talking to Derek is not what you want to be doing.

“We have a problem,” he says gruffly and you have a hard time not making a smartass comment. “You’re going to want to get over here.” You bite hard on your lip and squeeze your eyes shut.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you groan more to yourself than to him.

“Get over here.” Just like that he’s hanging up, leaving you frustrated in too many ways to list. 

“We need to go to Derek’s,” you announce very annoyed.

“If it’s not important, I’m going to rip his throat out,” Peter straightens out and turns back to you. He struts across the room, staring into your eyes the whole time. He shakes his head very slowly. “And then I’m going to fuck you in his damn loft.” Small chills go down your spine when he cups your jaw.

He gives you one more deep, passionate kiss that leaves your knees weak. You melt into him and sigh when he pulls away. He leans his head down so his lips are next to your ear.

“I’m bringing you back here after,” he whispers roughly before nipping at your earlobe. You struggle to stay standing once he pulls away and walks back to the wall.

“I’m counting on it,” you whisper, voice suddenly gone. He smirks over his shoulder at you before picking up your shirt and throwing it at you.

“Better get going.”


	22. Connection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You find out what was important enough to cause the interruption.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry this is so, so late. I’ve had so much going on and a giant brick wall of writer’s block. This is a lot of “plot moving forward” stuff, but I hope it’s still keeping you interested.

The drive to Derek’s loft is painful. Peter has a white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel and you’re squeezing your legs together trying to stop the arousal you’re still feeling. Neither of you bother to make an attempt at conversation. It’s been made very clear that talking isn’t what either of you want to be doing. 

“He better make this fast,” Peter comments after he’s parked and pulling himself out of the car. You think about teasing him and making a sarcastic comment, but you were thinking the same thing if you were honest. You wanted this quick and done and to be back at Peter’s apartment and lacking clothes.

The elevator ride up is probably the worst. You find yourself actually wishing for a mechanical failure and for the lift to get stuck between floors. Elevator floor isn’t exactly the ideal place to jump Peter, but you’re feeling a little desperate. There’s a large amount of space between the two of you as you stand in the elevator, a comical amount really. It’s painfully obvious that you both tried not to be close to one another. Anyone who walked in would think you were angry with each other. Kind of humorous since it’s the exact opposite.

When the doors open, Peter motions for you to step out first. You smile briefly and step forward. The moment you do, you can feel his eyes on you. The heat in the air hasn’t faltered at all and you bite your lip before pausing in the elevator doorway.

“Peter?” He hums in response. “Quit staring at my ass.” You throw him a coy smile over your shoulder and he smirks back. His eyes slip up your body and he pushes off the back wall as you start walking away.

A part of you wonders how you’re going to be able to make it through this meeting without Peter being a huge distraction. You even make a mental note to sit far away from him and at an angle so that you won’t have to see him. But when you walk into the living room, you realize it’s not going to be a problem.

Chris Argent stands in the middle of the room, jacket and face smeared in blood. Allison is currently trading him a clean towel for the already tinted red one in his hand, her face straight and trying to hide her worry. When Derek walks in from the kitchen, you see his hands still wet with fresh blood and streaks of it dashing down his white wife beater.

You stomach drops low and you walk quickly up to him, reaching out and grabbing his hands to examine them, turn them over in your palms and make sure he’s healed. You see no scratches, no tears in his clothing. His hair isn’t even disheveled.

“Derek, what happened?” you ask quickly, words tumbling out of your mouth as you keep a hold on his hands, the blood transferring to you and starting to dry stickily on your skin. “Are you okay?” His fingers curl around your hands to stop your motions.

“It’s not my blood,” he assures you in a soft tone. You can feel your heart start to slow even though you hadn’t realized it had even started pounding in your chest. “Or Argent’s,” he comments offhandedly, throwing a glance in his direction.

“Then what’s going on?” The concern hasn’t faded from your voice and you’re holding his hands maybe a little too tightly. You actually start to feel guilt creeping into your body. If Derek had been in danger and you were carrying on with Peter like a hormonal teenager, you’d feel awful.

“There’s a body in the bathtub.” Derek says it so casually that you’re not even sure you heard him right. He gives you half a shrug and lets go of your hands.

“There’s more to that story, right?” you question, the guilt vaporized and replaced with an extreme amount of confusion. You look back out to the room where Chris is still cleaning himself off. Everyone else is scattered on the furniture, waiting for things to make sense.

“You know,” Peter interrupts, sitting himself down in one of the open chairs. “I’m pretty sure the first thing I taught you was to never bring the dead body home.” Derek gives him a sarcastic smile as Peter sits there smugly.

“I was pretty sure you’d want to see it,” Chris mentions. “It’s not like there was much left anyways.” His eyes are distant and cold and you do a quick scan of his body to make sure Derek wasn’t lying. No open wounds, or ripped clothing. Just blood and mud and leaves. 

“What the hell happened?” you demand. 

“Kayla Slater happened.” Even though he’s speaking to everyone, Chris directs his words at Peter. The name means nothing to you, but Derek hangs his head low and Peter visibly stiffens, his spine straightening and jaw tightening. Everyone else is like you though, curious and confused eyes flickering between the three men, waiting for an explanation.

“How’d she get through the barrier?” Peter asks, a slight accusatory tone lacing his question.

“I don’t know,” Chris answers firmly. “I was tracking the Cerberus in the woods and I came across her ordering it to attack. I didn’t even have a chance to see who the victim was. I tried to save them, but…” he trails off, lifting his arms and showing off the mess on his clothes.

“How’d you get away?” You ask. “That thing is huge and the one time I ran into it, it didn’t seem keen on just letting me walk away.”

“You probably ran into it while it was off-leash, so to say.” Chris wipes the towel over his face again, but doesn’t get much more of the blood off. “She was still controlling it when I found them.”

“And she’d never let it touch an Argent,” Peter bites back bitterly. Derek gives him a scolding look which he ignores.

“Someone needs to break this down for us,” Scott interjects, standing up and stepping between the Hales and the Argents as if they’re going to start fighting. It’s unlikely, but you can’t blame him. The tension between the families hasn’t ever really gone away. Even now they’re on completely opposite sides of the room, neither one wanting to be closer than they need to. “Who is this Slater woman?” 

“Wait.” Stiles sits up and points to you. “Isn’t Slater the last name of the guy suing the dead guy?”

“Jeremy,” Lydia corrects. “The  _dead guy_ ’s name was Jeremy.” Stiles just nods and ignores her for the most part. He keeps looking at you for confirmation, but you honestly can’t remember.

“Carl Slater.” Peter saves you the trouble of having to try to search back in your mind. Peter’s mouth presses into a thin line and his eyes roll up. “I should have caught that.” He groans and sinks back in his chair.

“Some backstory would still be helpful here,” Allison mentions gently, taking the second towel from her dad. “Who are these people?” Chris sighs heavily besides her.

“Extended family of ours,” he admits. Stiles rolls his eyes and nods his head, silently saying  _Of course_  and you can almost hear a growl slip out of Peter’s throat. This isn’t going to be good.

It takes almost a half hour for the three of them to break everything down. Kayla and Carl Slater are siblings who are distant cousins of the Argents. While they’re technically human, the family has been known to dabble in the supernatural much like witches, though no one really likes using that label.

Many years ago, back before Allison was even born, Kayla snapped. The whole family was pretty unhinged, but Kayla was the worst, the most dangerous. She targeted the Hales first, seriously wounding Derek’s mother and killing another of their pack. She didn’t stop there though. She started targeting other packs and then emissaries, and then innocent people.

Being family, the Argents protected her as best as they could, refusing to take her out themselves. It ended up coming down to a tense agreement in banishing her and putting a barrier up around the town to make sure she couldn’t return. She was stripped of her talismans and sent out of Beacon Hills with nothing. No one has heard from her since.

During the whole explanation, the tension between the two families remained steady if not increasing. Scott continued to stand between them and at some point you sat down on the couch, trying to ignore the way Peter’s fingers clutched angrily at the armrests of his chair.

“So crazy-witch-lady burst through the barrier, summoned a dog from hell, and murdered poor accountant guy because her brother was suing him?” Stiles attempts to summarize. His face is scrunched up, his mind trying to piece everything together.

“That’s what it looks like.” Chris nods. “Kayla is protective of family. If she found out her brother got the short end of a deal or was in trouble, I wouldn’t put it past her to do this.”

“We don’t have any idea who the person in your bathtub is?” You ask Derek. He shakes his head and crosses his arms.

“There’s not much to identify.” He looks to Argent and Chris nods in agreement. “Probably a male based on the shoulder size and the hair on the leg, but there’s no face and no identifying features; moles, freckles, birthmarks, anything.”

“Fingerprints?” Stiles ponders.

“I really don’t think we can take a severed finger to your dad and ask for an ID,” Derek snaps at him. You tilt your head and silently scold his impatience. He looks away.

“I’ll dispose of the body, but I wanted Derek and Peter to see it first.” You furrow your brow at Chris.

“Why?” you ask, watching as Derek casts a knowing glance at Peter. Peter returns his look, tilting his head and quietly prompting Derek to answer. Whatever it was, Derek already saw it.

“The triskelion is carved into the shoulder,” Derek responds gravely. You watch Peter take a deep breath and roll his shoulders back. “She’s going to be coming after us,” he clarifies for the rest of the room, nodding to Peter and himself. Your stomach drops for the second time. Derek tries to give you a small, reassuring smile when he sees the worry clearly painted on your face.

“You should have let us kill her when we had the chance,” Peter growls out. You can feel the whole room stiffen. People physically sink back into their seats as Peter raises his head to look across the room. Even Scott teeters back a little, unsure if he wants to get in the way. His words are thick and angry, menace lacing through the sound of each letter. “This is  _your_  fucking fault.” When he stands up, it’s slow and pointed. “So you don’t get a say this time.” He stalks across the room, Derek stepping out of his way, not exactly opposed to letting Peter tear Argent to shreds in his living room if his uncle wanted to. Scott steps forward, but Peter looks right past him. “This time, I’m putting her in the fucking ground.”

Peter stops his advances and the two men stare each other down. Peter’s eyes flash involuntarily. Chris simply stands up tall, face stern. He knows better than to argue right now and quite frankly, after all that’s happened over the last few years, you’re not sure Chris has any desire to disagree.

Derek bites his tongue and looks on, but you can tell he’s just as furious. His shoulders are tense and muscles flexed as if he’s forcefully keeping himself in place. His mouth is formed into a line so thin that he might as well be biting his lips shut. 

Not one bit of this is good.

“So what are our next steps?” You stand up, mostly to create a visual distraction, to maybe pull their attention off of each other.

“Finding out where she’s hiding would be a good place to start,” Chris says, eyes slowly shifting from Peter to you. “Easier said than done.”

“You can do it though?” you question. Argent blinks slowly and nods reluctantly.

“I have some ideas,” he admits. 

“Then do it,” Scott says, stepping into his Alpha role again. “If you can find her without scaring her or approaching her in any way, do it. I’ll see if Deaton has any more information on the Cerberus or on her.” He looks out to the group, addressing the whole room. “We keep our heads down for now.”

—

Things dissolve rather quickly after that. Allison leaves with her dad, Chris smart enough to know that his welcome here was temporary and well worn out. Lydia, being a good friend, follows. Peter disappears, practically stomps away. He has to see the body, see the mark for himself. You stay where you are with no desire to see it and no feasible way of offering anything close to comfort for him.

When Scott and Stiles depart, you wonder if you should follow suit before remembering that Peter drove you. You’re awkwardly stuck as Derek leaves the room to go change into non-bloody clothes so you sit yourself back on the couch.

It doesn’t take too long for Peter to return. He appears to have calmed down some, his body more relaxed and face not as tight. He’s carrying a dark washcloth in his hands and you can see it drip a little onto the floor. He hands it out for you to take.

“For your hands,” he says when you look at him confused. You look down and are surprised to see you forgot you had blood on them. It’s dried now, crusted over on your skin.

“Oh, thanks.” It’s warm and wet when you take it from him. You flatten it over your palms to let the water soak in and loosen up the stiff blood. You don’t have to scrub too hard to get most of it off after that. When you’re done, Peter takes it and tosses it casually onto the coffee table. You think about mentioning a bloody washcloth was probably rude to be leaving around, but it’s probably not the first Derek’s had either. “You okay?” you ask.

“Just one more thing trying to kill me,” he comments offhandedly. Honestly, you’re not sure if he’s just playing it off or if he’s really not overly concerned by it at this very moment in time. You’re not going to push the matter. He sits down next to you and throws his arms over the back of the couch, leaning back and relaxing. “Definitely would have preferred to stay home, though.” His voice slips easily back into that seductive and suggestive tone as he gives you a quick wink. You give him a laugh and lean back with him, his arm slipping from the couch to wrap around your shoulders.

“Certainly would have been more fun,” you agree. Peter leans in and whispers in your ear.

“I do remember making a certain promise if I deemed this intrusion not important enough.” His voice is low and hot in your ear. It amazes you how fast he can make your body go from worried-about-your-friends-dying to completely-turned-on in just one minute. The fingers on your shoulder skim across your neck and dip into the collar of your shirt.

“We are not having sex in Derek’s living room,” you protest, lowering your voice to a hushed tone, afraid Derek is going to hear. Peter chuckles and dances his fingers over your collarbone.

“Bet I could convince you,” he teases and swipes his tongue over the shell of your ear. You let out a small giggle as a shiver runs down your spine. Not entirely sure that he’s wrong, you put a hand on his chest and push him away before he tries anything else.

“You’ve waited this long. You can wait a little longer,” you tell him with a smile on your face. He’s about to say something else when he hears Derek start to walk back into the room. He’s got a clean t-shirt on and has washed his hands.

“We should probably get going,” Peter says to no one in particular. He removes his arm from you and stands. Derek gives him a short glare, but doesn’t say anything. 

“Are you alright?” you ask Derek. You wait for Peter to step away from the couch before you stand up and walk over to look at Derek.

“I’m fine,” he says. “A little sick of the past coming back to bite us in the ass, but I’m okay,” he admits. You put your hand on his shoulder and you can still feel the tension there. He tries to give you that reassuring smile again.

“I just worry. You live alone here and now you’ve got a crazy person out to get you.” You let your hand slip down to his and give it a squeeze.

“I live alone,” Peter interrupts, offended. “Anyone worried about me?”

“No,” both you and Derek answer firmly, giving him glares. Peter rolls his eyes and crosses his arms, waiting for you two to finish.

“I’ve got plenty of security here,” Derek reassures you. You scoff.

“Oh yeah, the rickety elevator and no lock on the door screams safe and secure.” You can see Peter’s lips tilt up in a smirk at your sarcasm. Derek just gives you an unamused look and lets his hand fall out of yours.

“I’ll let you know if anyone tries to break in, how about that?” he offers. You give him a small smile.

“Thank you.” You’re about to turn away when another thought comes to you. “What about Cora? Is she-”

“She’s safe where she is,” Peter cuts in. He doesn’t mean it in a rude way. He says it more protectively than anything. “We’ll check in with her in the morning.” He and Derek give each other short nods and you realize they’ve made plans for these types of occasions before. The Hales were no stranger to threats and they had their protocols and habits and plans to keep track of each other and make sure their family is safe. “Now,” Peter’s voice takes on a lighter tone. “I do believe we have plans to get back to.” Derek rolls his eyes again and you pull him into a quick hug to make him stop.

“Keep in touch,” you tell him. He pulls away and nods towards the door, sending you on your way reluctantly. You can tell from the harsh eyes he directs at Peter that he’s still not fully accepting of you two being… whatever you are. As you walk past Peter, he places his hand on your lower back, guiding you towards the door and you can practically hear Derek’s internal groan flare up with anger.

Peter walks closely besides you as you leave Derek’s loft. He slides the door shut behind him and follows you to the elevator. You press the button and wait for the lift to open up.

“So am I taking you home?” Peter asks, looking straight ahead at the closed doors. “Or are you coming with me?” He slides just his eyes to glance at you.

You aren’t really sure what the answer is for a moment. You’re worried the news of impending doom has ruined the mood. Before, things were hot and heavy and everything was happening with an adrenaline rush, but now there was time to think, time to actually consider what’s going on with the two of you and truly make a choice. And he was giving you the out if you want it.

The elevator doors open and Peter steps swiftly inside. He turns and puts his back to the wall, leaning his hands on the railing behind him. He quirks an eyebrow and waits for you. It only takes a few seconds and one look at him to make the decision.

Feeling bold, you strut into the elevator. You lift your hands up to the sides of his face and slink your body up against his. Pulling him down to you, you kiss him roughly. You grind your hips into his and let your tongue slip across his lips as he returns the kiss and grabs your hips.

You pull away from him just barely enough to whisper, “You’re taking me back to your place.” He smirks devilishly at you before spinning you around, pressing your back to the wall and slipping one of his legs between yours.

“With pleasure.” He sweeps his mouth over yours again while the elevator dings and the doors close.


	23. Undone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter takes you back to his place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… Hi. I’m really sorry about the wait. Things in life have just not been working out. A lot of literal death and diseases hitting my family. Plus this was the part I was most afraid to write. All the build up lead here and I didn’t want to disappoint. I so hope I don’t. Also, this was not proofread so apologies for typos.

You stumble through Peter’s front door, his lips attached to your neck and your jacket already pushed halfway down your arms. You’re honestly surprised you’ve made it this far.

A part of you expected Peter to hit the emergency stop back in the elevator at Derek’s place. He had slid his hands underneath your shirt to run his fingers over your skin and he kept pressing his thigh further between your legs, shifting it back and forth, practically urging you to ride the hard muscle under his jeans. He never hit the stop though. He pulled away slowly when the elevator dinged, dragging his lips off of yours and taking a single step backwards. He then smirked and turned away, walking out, leaving you to follow after him breathlessly.

That was bad, but the car ride back to his place had been worse. You thought he’d speed out of the parking lot, drive as fast as he could. Hell, you  _wanted_  him to. The asshole drove painfully slow instead. Every time he eased his foot off the accelerator and the rev of the engine died down, you felt like screaming.

He chuckled cruelly at your frustration and extended his arm out to rest his hand on your thigh. You shot him a glare, but made no moves to remove him. If anything, you opened your legs just slightly, pushing your thigh further into his palm and making it easier for him to squeeze. His fingers inched higher, curling over your inner thigh. When he barely brushed one of his fingers over your already tingling cunt, you had enough.

“Peter,” you said roughly. He hummed in response, only sending you a passing glance. If he was going to be mean, you could play back. You lifted his hand off your leg and brought it up to your mouth. You took his index finger and pressed it to your lips, slowly sucking it into your mouth and flicking your tongue over it. You watched as he stiffened and shifted in the driver’s seat. The slightest groan escaped him when you sucked a little harder and pulled back, running your lips back up his finger. “Drive faster,” you whispered after pulling away. You grinned when you felt the car jerk forward.

He hadn’t kissed you until you were out of his car and standing at his apartment door. You stood to the side, waiting for him to open it, but with a small growl, he grabbed your arm and pushed you against the door, crashing his lips down to yours. You didn’t even notice he had simultaneously been unlocking the door until his lips latched onto your neck and you were suddenly tumbling backwards.

“Where’s your phone?” he asks, kicking the door shut and wrapping his arms around your waist to keep you upright and steady. 

“Pocket,” you mumble back, fingers raking through his hair and pulling his mouth back to you. You feel one of his hands dip into your front pocket and forcefully take your phone.

“I don’t care if someone is dying,” he tells you, taking the time to actually turn it off before dropping it on the floor. “We aren’t being interrupted this time.” You flash him a quick smile, humored by his impatience. He hooks his hands into your jacket and strips it the rest of the way off of you.

“You must really want it bad,” you tease. Things slow down for just a moment, just long enough for you to really feel the way his body is pressing into you and see his dark eyes rolling over you. Your stomach flutters and stirs and your hands start to travel down his body to his hips.

“Worse than you know,” he growls before sweeping back down to kiss you. Hearing him say it sends a rush of boldness through you and before you know it, you’re pushing him backwards so his back is to the nearest wall and your hands are undoing his belt.

When you pry his hands off of you and sink down to your knees in front of him, he tries to hold in a soft, primal sound. When you pull his belt through the loops on his jeans and start to unbutton them, you realize the heated adrenaline coursing through you is making your hands unsteady. It takes you a little longer than you want to fumble the fly of his jeans open, but one look up at Peter staring down at you hungrily tells you he doesn’t mind a bit.

You curl your fingers into the waistband of his jeans and his boxers, pulling down and dragging them both down his hips. He’s already hard and you have to slide your hands towards his front to tug at them and make them expand over his cock. Once it’s out, you almost shove his pants down to his ankles, not wanting to bother with them anymore.

His cock is average length and thick. Already hard, it hangs in front of you, twitching in anticipation. You don’t stop to admire it, though a part of you wants to. Maybe another time, you’ll stroke him slow so you can watch him in detail and really see all he has to offer, but right now, you don’t care what he looks like. You just want to feel him.

You wrap your hand loosely around him and give a single stroke. Peter groans and you feel him lean all his weight into the wall behind him. Mimicking your motions from the car, you purse your lips against the tip of his cock. Slowly, you take the head into your mouth and let your tongue flick along the tip, tasting the precum leaking out.

As you hollow out your cheeks and swallow the rest of him, one of his hands threads through your hair. Pressing the pad of your tongue on the underside of him, you can feel the veins start to bulge and the way he throbs. His fingers twist at the back of your head, tugging just slightly. When you pull back, lifting your tongue to use just the tip tease him, you look up through your lashes at him.

Peter’s jaw is tight and his eyes dark. He’s biting his lower lip and holding his breath as he watches you. When he sees your eyes looking up at him, your mouth still wrapped around his dick, his eyes roll back and his head slams back into the wall. 

“Fuck,” he groans, elongating the curse and leaving his mouth hanging open. He gives a gentle pull on your hair, guiding you back down his length. You greedily suck him down again, loving the way he fills your mouth.

You start to bob on him, using your tongue to keep him wet and tease him. You add your hand, wrapping your fingers around him and alternating pressure, sliding them up and down with your lips. Even though he lets you set the pace, his keeps twisting his hand in your hair, pushing and pulling.

Your body is hot and you can feel your skin flushing. Peter’s been a turn-on for longer than you’ll admit and having him practically at your mercy, being able to do almost anything you want to him is driving you crazy. You take your free hand and press it between your legs, the simple pressure of your palms rubbing on you enough to calm the ache. You can already feel your panties are wet. 

“Stop,” Peter tells you roughly, giving a pull on your hair, dragging your mouth off of him. You retreat instantly, a small pit of dread filling in your stomach. If he changed his mind, not only would you feel embarrassed, but you’d want to kill him. He lifts his head off the wall and stares down at you, eyes still lustful. “I’m going to cum if you keep that up,” he admits before smirking. “And I’m not done with you.” He untwists his hand from your hair and starts to kick off his shoes and step out of his jeans. “Get up here.”

You put your hands on his bare hips to help lift yourself back to your feet. You also slip your shoes off and kick them aside. You follow Peter’s lead when he starts removing his shirt and tear yours off over your head. Before you can even think about trying to remove your pants, Peter’s hands are on your hips, pulling you to him and spinning you around.

He pushes you face first into the wall, your palms splayed out on the beige paint, resisting the urge to claw it. He presses up behind you and his mouth makes its way to your neck. The feel of his lips and his teeth on the sensitive skin make your knees shake. Peter wraps one arm around your waist to keep you steady and slides his other hand down the front of your pants.

He keeps his mouth roaming over your neck and your shoulder as his hand slips past your underwear and curves over your pussy. His middle finger slips between your folds, sliding back and forth, teasing you.

“So wet,” he growls, bringing his lips towards your ear. You rest your forehead against the wall and hold back a whimper. He tightens his arm around you and grinds into your ass. His chest is warm on your back and you have to stop yourself from pushing back into him. “Can’t tell you how many times I had you in this position,” he tells you, his voice husky and low. “And just wanted to slide my fingers into you.” You bite down on your lower lips as his finger slowly curves up and dips inside of you.

You want to have a dirty response, but when your mouth opens, all that comes out is a breathy moan. You want to tell him that you’d thought about it too, that he should have just fucked you into the floor one of those dozens of times he had you pinned down. You start to try again to speak, but absolutely fail because he starts moving his finger in and out of you, using the heel of his palm to add pressure on your clit.

There’s a dark chuckle as his teeth graze your ear. He tightens his fingers around your hip and grinds his dick into your ass again. Pleasure starts to pulse through your body and you open your legs just a little more to give him better access. You can feel his hot breath fan over your neck, coming out in long pants. He stomps pumping his finger and pushes it deep into you causing you to let out a weak, pleasured sound. He crooks the end of his finger, pressing against a little bundle of nerves, causing you to buck into his hand.

“That’s right, sweetheart,” he coos into your ear, moving his finger ever so slightly. “Ride it.” Your body listens to him before your mind can even process the order, driven by the sheer need to have release. You buck your hips down on his hand, circling and grinding them around his finger. He rubs a little more on your clit and you can feel the rumble of a growl vibrate through his chest. “That’s it.”

“Peter,” you moan out. One of your hands clamps down on his forearm across your waist to help steady yourself as you orgasm hits. Your legs clench together, stopping motion of his hand and letting you ride it out. You don’t cry out or scream, your body nearly paralyzed by the intensity of it. Peter grips you tightly, places small, open-mouthed kisses on your neck until you can open your eyes again. “Fuck,” you breathe out. He chuckles again, slowly slipping his finger out of you and dragging his hand out of your pants.

Your body feels loose, your muscles feeling more like a marshmallow than a solid mass, and little aftershocks keep sparking up inside of you. Peter lets you take your time, slowly turning you back to face him and helping you support your weight. You wrap your arms around his neck and welcome his kisses.

His tongue sweeps over your lips before nipping at them and both his hands curve around your hips to cup your ass. He lifts you up easily, moving his hands under your thighs to guide your legs around his waist. You can feel his dick underneath you, pushing up on your pussy and the tired, spent feeling is already starting to fade.

He starts walking you over to the couch. Keeping you supported with one arm, he lifts the other up to pop open the clasp on the back of your bra you pretty much forgot you were wearing. You take over from there, unwrapping your arms from his neck and slipping it off your shoulders. He sets you down on the couch, putting your head towards an armrest and crawling up on his knees between your legs.

“How do you want it?” he asks between kisses, pressing his chest down onto yours, reveling in the way your breasts feel bare against him. Your nails rake through his hair and down his neck.

“I don’t even care,” you answer honestly. You’re surprised you can even form words when your brain feels like nothing but a puddle. He pulls his body away from yours making you shiver when the cold air hits your skin. He sinks further down the couch so he can drag your pants down your thighs. You lift your hips to help him and he tosses your pants and panties aside.

“Turn over,” he tells you. “Get on your knees.” His voice is sharp and stern, but the way his hands help guide your hips as you flip over is gentle and soft. You’re not sure which is more of a turn-on. You fumble to get on your hands and knees for him, resting your forearms on the armrest and arching your back for him. He glides one hand over your back before he leans over you. “I’m going to make you scream,” he whispers in your ear just as you feel him lining up the head of his dick with your still dripping pussy.

“Fuck me, Peter.” You don’t even care that it sounds like you’re begging. You need him inside of you.

Peter slides in slowly, letting you feel every inch of him fill you up and stretch you out. Your body offers no resistance, only pushes back at him, wanting more. You close your eyes and bring your head to your forearm as he pushes in all the way. He straightens behind you, hands roaming over your back and your ass.

You hear him let out a growl that’s more wolf than human before he starts moving. He slides in and out slowly at first, both of you drawing out the feeling of  _finally_  being here. Every once in a while, you feel him throb or pulse inside of you, stretching you just a little more for just a moment and it hitches your breath.

“So tight,” he mumbles behind you. His hands fall back on your hips to hold you still while he starts speeding up. “You feel so fucking good.” He starts fucking you harder, fingers digging into your flesh, his hips pounding into your ass. You let out a small cry and bite down on your arm, your body sensitive and already building back up to another orgasm.

Both of your breathing gets heavier, coming out in groans and pants. You try to hold in your cries and your moans but he keeps managing to slide into you just right, making you grind back against him while you let out an involuntary sound. It only encourages him and he fucks you faster, harder.

“Oh god,” you moan into the couch. Little whispered words of  _yes_  and  _fuck_  and  _right there_  tumble off your lips, eliciting little growls and grunts from him. “Peter,” you say desperately.

“Touch yourself,” he tells you. “I want to feel you cum on me.” You reach down under your body and start circling your finger around your clit. It sends instant sparks of pleasure shooting through you and Peter lets out a primal groan when your pussy tightens around him. “Fuck, I’m going to cum.”

“Fuck,” you curse, the coil in your center tightening. “Do it, Peter. Cum with me.”

You both come undone at the same time, something inside of you snapping and flooding pure ecstasy through you while he buries him cock as deep inside of you as he can. A short scream slips up your throat as your pussy clenches around. He hunches over you and sinks his teeth into your shoulder, biting hard enough to send little tingles of pained pleasure through you, but not enough to hurt.

It takes you both a few moments for your bodies to come down from the high. He starts to soften inside of you and you drop your hand away from your clit. He eases his teeth off of your skin and places a small kiss in its place. He braces his hands on the couch to help lift himself off of you, sliding out of your cunt.

Once he’s off of you, you collapse down and shift over onto your back, your feet drawn up to give Peter space. You wipe at your face, smoothing your hair back. Peter sits by your feet, resting a hand on your bent knee and leaning his head back. When you get the strength to look at him, he’s got a completely calm and satisfied look on his face that you’ve never seen before. It makes you smile.

“That was…” you trail off, not even sure what word you want. Peter hums positively in response. He grabs a nearby blanket and tosses it to you so you can cover yourself up. You’re thankful for it, a slight self-consciousness sinking in. He rolls his head towards you and his smirk returns.

“Definitely my favorite human,” he muses, making both of you laugh. You wait for an awkwardness to settle over you both, but it doesn’t seem to come. You’re both worn out and full of lazy euphoria. “Are you hungry?”

“Oh yeah,” you laugh. Food after sex was usually a must-have. He smiles at you and pats your knee before standing and stretching out his back. You try not to stare at his dick hanging between his legs.

“You can check your phone now. Make sure no one died,” he mentions. “But I’m sure if they did, someone would have called me too. I left mine on.” It seems like such a sweet, small gesture and warms up your core with butterflies. You blame the post-sex high.

“I’m going to go clean myself up.” You sit up and swing your legs over onto the floor as Peter starts walking towards the kitchen. He turns his head back and gives you a wink.

“Feel free to forget your panties again.”


	24. The After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens after your tryst with Peter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’M SO SORRY THIS TOOK FOREVER. I’m an awful person. I’m not giving up on this though I promise!

You look at yourself in the mirror and take a deep breath. After cleaning up and changing into the more comfortable clothes in your workout bag, you’re strangely nervous about leaving the bathroom. How are you supposed to act around Peter now? Was this a one-time thing to satisfy curiosity? Are you a _thing_ now?

Only one way to find out, you suppose.

Peter has slipped sweatpants on and is standing over the stove, dish towel thrown over his shoulder, some pre-made frozen fajita mix sizzling in a skillet and filling the room with a deliciously spicy smell. His hair is messy and you can remember what it felt like to run your fingers through it.

“This won’t take long,” he says once he sees you standing in the kitchen. “Coffee is brewing too.” He points with a spatula towards the pot sputtering out black coffee. Before Peter you’d never drank coffee at night, but it’s become a habit now. It was a reason to stay a little later, an excuse to spend a little more time with him.

“Thanks.” You pour yourself a cup and help yourself to his fridge for the creamer. Somewhere along the line he started buying your preferred brand of creamer. You’ve never mentioned noticing it to him, but it still makes you smile. “You normally make your conquests dinner afterwards?” you joke with him. He scoffs, turning his eyes to watch you as you make your coffee.

“Most women want the whole production of dinner _before_ ,” he chuckles. “I’m not usually much of a ‘morning after’ kind of guy if that’s what you’re asking.” He taps his spatula on the side of the skillet and sets it aside. He walks up next to you and suddenly you’re afraid to look up at him. The heat between you hasn’t seemed to diffuse much. You can feel your face flush and those damn butterflies haven’t gone anywhere either. “Is that what you think you are?” he asks lowly, voice dropping down and sending shivers down your spine. “A conquest?”

Your throat constricts and when you try to swallow, it feels dry. You have a rebuttal in your mind, something quip-y and cute to snark back at him confidently as you stir your coffee. You want to stand tall, shoulders pulled back and make it look like his being right next to you, with a damn finger curling over your shoulder even, doesn’t affect you. Too bad your mind can’t make your body cooperate with that image. Instead, that teasing finger gives you goosebumps and your head hangs low, just staring at your coffee.

“I don’t know,” you mumble, cringing internally at how small and pathetic it sounds. You really hadn’t meant to start a conversation on the topic yet and are not mentally prepared for it. You’re not even sure what it is _you_ want out of all of this.

“Well,” he drawls, his finger tracing higher up to your neck and jawline. “That’s not the word I would personally use.” You finally look at him, his familiar smirk somehow comforting. “But whatever you want to call yourself is your business.” His fingertip slips up your jawline once more before he retracts his hand from you. “If you want to be racy about it though, I’ve always like the term harlot,” he chuckles, the humor clear in his voice as he steps back away from you. “Always had a nice ring to it.” He throws you a wink and you have to laugh, relieved you weren’t actually going to have this conversation right here and now.

“If I’m calling myself an old-fashioned prostitute, then you owe me some money,” you joke back with him as he resumes stirring dinner. He shrugs.

“A good whore would have collected ahead of time.” He flips the burner off and tosses the dish towel from his shoulder to the counter. 

“Touché.” You smile at him and sip at your coffee, pleasantly surprised at how casual and easy everything suddenly feels.

You both fix your plates and sit down at the table, conversation slipping back into the familiar topic of training. Peter insists that you need another outdoor cardio session despite the temperature rapidly dropping. You stare at him angrily across the table and all he does is tilt his head and shrug cockily at you.

“You’re trying to kill me and I hate you,” you tease, putting your fork down and wiping your mouth with a paper towel.

“You know, for some reason I have a hard time believing that tonight.” His foot extends out and brushes against your leg. You try to keep a tough face, but you can’t help the smile that comes out.

“Don’t let it go to your head,” you say even as you press your leg back against his foot in return. “There’s still plenty of time for you to make me hate you.” He chuckles at you and shrugs one more time before standing up to take care of the dishes.

You lean back in your seat, sipping at your coffee, content to just watch him for a minute. You muse over how everything feels pretty much the same even though it should feel different now. Something had actually happened. You kissed him. You _slept_ with him. Things should be different, shouldn’t they? Where are the awkward silences and the confused, uneasy glances? Where is the feeling of dread?

“You’re staring,” Peter states without even looking back at you.

“You stare at me all the time,” you counter with a smirk.

“I’m your trainer. I’m supposed to watch you.” He puts the dishes in the sink and runs some warm water over them.

“That your only reason?” Peter turns the sink off and swivels on his heels to face you. He watches as you put your coffee down and unconsciously straighten up a little. He smirks and tilts his head, his eyes sliding down your body, brows raising suggestively.

“Maybe not the only reason,” he admits. Your stomach still flutters even though you were having sex with the man not even an hour ago and you have to bite your lip to keep from smiling like an idiot. You almost hate how genuinely happy you feel right now.

“So when are you going to make me go running?” you ask, changing the subject.

“Let’s see how this whole dead body situation plays out the next few days and I’ll let you know.” You nod and stand up, reaching your arms over your head and stretching your back. Your shirt rises up over your abdomen and you try not to notice the way Peter’s eyes dip down to your skin.

“I should get going,” you announce once you’ve brought your arms back to your sides. It’s dark and it’s getting late and tonight especially, you don’t want to overstay your welcome.

“Alright.” His voice is a little too plain, his expression a little too stony, like he purposely froze the expression he had when you spoke, not wanting you to see it change. He nods and starts walking towards the living room.

You stand still, confused for just a moment before you realize. Were you supposed to spend the night? Did he _want_ you to? Suddenly nervous and fidgety, you follow him to the living room in a rush. 

“Peter,” you call out after him. “I just didn’t think I should stay,” you try to explain as you get close to him. “I mean I don’t have my things and we’re… well we are-” Peter cuts you off by turning sharply on his heel causing you to almost run into him. He puts a finger on your mouth and you close it quickly. His lips are tinted with humor.

“You need to relax,” he tells you in a small laugh, his other hand coming to your hip. His voice drops down lower, closer to a whisper. “This doesn’t have to be complicated.” The finger on your lips shifts up your jaw until his hand cradles it. “Okay?” He leans down, presses his body to yours and your mind goes foggy.

“Okay,” you manage to mutter, your eyes stuck on his lips tilting up just slightly, amused. Your eyes close when he dips forward and pulls you to him. The kiss is slower than the previous ones, less frenzied.

Without the worry of time or interruptions, with the months of buildup already satisfied, everything slows down. His lips glide over yours almost tenderly as both of his hands slip down to your lower back. You breathe in deeply through your nose, hit with his scent that’s all too familiar and almost overwhelming.

You let your hands trail up his chest, feeling the muscle beneath his t-shirt and fisting the fabric in your hands near his collarbone before splaying your palms over his shoulders. His hands drift down over your ass and give a playful squeeze.

The kiss pauses, both of you opening your mouths, but not pulling away just yet. You take the moment to catch your breath, to try to stop the tingling running through your body. Peter’s tongue teases your bottom lip before he kisses you again.

“See?” he whispers into the kiss. “Not complicated.” You pretend you don’t make a small whimpering noise when he pulls away. He grabs your jacket off the floor where you had both left it discarded. He hands it out to you and you take it from it. You stand there like a complete fool for a moment, mind still hazy and unsure of how to form words. “You better get going,” he prompts. “That rain we’ve been having is finally turning into snow.”

He makes sure you have everything before walking you to the door. The air is cold and crisp, the temperature having dropped down since you got to his place. It sends chills along your skin as you step out.

“Keep in touch?” you ask playfully, turning to face him. He scoffs and rolls his eyes causing you to chuckle. 

“We’ll see,” he dryly jokes. You watch each other for a few seconds, expressions and eyes softening. You want to reach out and kiss him again, but resist. Instead, you settle for a smile before leaving his doorway.


	25. Normalcy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You start to question how to act around Peter and the pack now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not dead, I swear. Just super busy. Trying to keep this going though!!

It’s fucking cold. You can see your puffs of breath form in front of your face as you huff, feel the cold air fill and sting your lungs. You can barely feel your fingertips even though they’re covered in leather gloves. Yet your head is too hot underneath the hat and you can feel sweat on your face and starting to tickle down your back. Your core is hot, burning even. 

“Almost done,” Peter tells you, his voice frustratingly even while yours is shaky and out of breath.

“Screw you,” you spit at him with as much venom as you can muster. He just chuckles.

“Maybe later,” he teases. “If you’re good.”

“If I don’t kill you first you mean.” You feel his hand swat playfully at your ass and you resist laughing with him.

It’s been three days since your night with Peter and it’s the coldest day of the year so far, the year slipping into December way too quickly. There’s snow and ice on the ground, the dirt that was mud only a few days ago already frozen solid. And he chose this day of all days to go for that run.

“You said we were almost done fifteen minutes ago,” you complain, even though talking causes a burn in your chest. Your legs slow down until you finally come to a stop, breath heavy and painful. “I need a break.” You put your hands on your knees and bend over, trying to catch your breath.

“Na-ah,” he scolds, putting a hand on your chest and pushing you back upright. “Keep moving. It’s not good to just stop suddenly.” He grabs your arm and starts walking, helping to guide you forward with a hand on your lower back. You groan over dramatically.

“You enjoy torturing me.” You’re too hot now, that warmth spreading from your core down into your legs, your thighs starting to itch with the burning before it drifts into your fingers too. It’s highly uncomfortable. “Why do people do this for fun?”

“You’re doing better,” he says, ignoring your question. You can feel his hand run up and down your back, though it feels distant and dull through the thickness of your coat. “Made it further than last time and in worse conditions.” He pulls a water bottle from inside his coat and hands it to you. “Drink slowly.”

“Yeah, yeah.” You take the bottle and take a couple of sips. It helps wet your mouth, but the water is cold and feels like straight ice going down your throat. You wince and give it back to him. “I hate you. It’s freezing out.” He shifts a little closer and chuckles again.

“Forgive me,” he says lowly, his warm breath fanning over your ear. “Let me warm you up.” His teeth gently nip at your earlobe, sending hot shivers down your back and making you squirm.

“Stop that,” you try to scold him, but it comes out as more of a giggle than anything. He doesn’t listen. He latches his lips around the shell of your ear and sucks gently, wrapping his arms around your waist to stop you from getting away. “Peter!” He growls, the vibrations sending more shivers through you. You turn in his arms, shifting to face him and pull your ear from his mouth. He’s smirking down at you, laughing and pressing against you.

“Just trying to help,” he says. Your hands rest on his arms, your little signal that you don’t want him to move away.

“Help yourself maybe.” You smile up at him, biting your lip just slightly when his eyes drift towards them. “Too bad we have that pack meeting after this.” You lean into him, lift up on your toes to brush your nose against his.

“I wouldn’t be opposed to skipping it.” His voice is low and husky and his hands are curving over your ass. He leans down to press his lips to yours, but you pull back, a teasing smile on your lips.

“There will be no skipping it.” You push on him gently and he reluctantly lets you go. “Now let’s finish up this torture run and get going.”

– 

You drive separately to Derek’s loft. You wanted to stop at home to rinse off and change clothes before going and you assume Peter wanted to do the same. It doesn’t take you as long as you thought and you end up getting there first.

When you walk into the loft, Argent is sitting on the couch, either disassembling or reassembling a gun on the coffee table. He pauses when you enter. 

“Derek’s upstairs,” he tells you before turning back to his gun. “You’re early.” You walk up and stand besides him, watching his hands as he connects pieces of the gun swiftly - reassembling apparently.

“So are you,” you counter. “Please don’t tell me you brought another body.” He cracks a dry smile and glances up at you.

“I try not to make a habit of that,” he jokes, making you laugh just slightly. You walk around the coffee table and sit in a chair across from him.

“You find the witch yet?” You don’t really have much else to say to him. You haven’t talked to Chris much at all, don’t really know him as anything more than an Argent hunter.

“Not yet, but I’m close.” Chris puts the piece in hand back on the table for a moment. “I’m trying not to get too close. Despite what your boyfriend believes, I don’t think she’d have a problem killing me.” You feel your body freeze up.

“My what?” You try not to let your voice jump or hitch. Resisting the urge to fidget, you cross your legs and lean back, trying to look casual.

“Aren’t you and Derek?” He trails off, implying the rest. You laugh out a sigh of relief.

“No, no,” you correct him. “Derek and I are just friends.”

“Apparently a lot of people think otherwise though,” Derek interrupts, coming down his staircase. “But technically, Peter was the one who said she wouldn’t hurt you, not me.” Chris shrugs and shifts his focus back to his gun, but Derek’s eyes stay pointedly on you, doing a little not-so-subtle implying of his own. You haven’t talked to him lately other than to check in and you’re trying not to admit that you’re avoiding him after things officially happened with Peter. You know Derek knows and honestly, you just don’t want to own up to it yet.  

“What are the chances she’ll just…stop?” you ask dumbly, just trying to change the subject.

“None,” Chris responds, not looking up. “She’s stubborn and unstable.”

“Sounds like someone we know,” Derek comments offhandedly, watching you for a reaction. You try not to give him one and just shrug off your coat onto the chair back behind you. “Even down to the revenge killing.”

“And yet we’re not going after _him_ ,” Chris says with no humor, fitting his gun back into one piece. You bite your tongue and resist the urge to defend Peter, Derek’s eyes still on you. Chris looks up and watches the two of you for a moment, picking up on the uneasiness but not saying anything.

It becomes uncomfortably quiet for a few moments. You find yourself staring down at your lap, pretending to ignore the men looking at you. You clap your hands on your thighs and stand up suddenly.

“Well, I’m going to go get a drink,” you announce before spinning off into the kitchen to escape them. You hide out in there, thankful neither of them followed, for a while until you hear more voices of the rest of the pack. Only then do you venture back out and reclaim your seat.

–

Not a whole lot of news is discussed. No new bodies. Chris is getting closer to finding her hiding spot, but has run into some bumps. Scott has gotten some more lore and intel on the Cerberus from Deaton. Instructions pretty much remain to sit tight and keep your eyes open.

Your focus isn’t really on the meeting itself after you catch on to the fact that there’s nothing new or worrisome yet. Your attention is on Peter who’s done a piss poor job of not staring at you. His looks haven’t been leering or crude, which is surprising, but he kept looking nonetheless.

It’s the first time his stare hasn’t worried you in public. He used to make you uneasy, always worried you couldn’t trust him, that he was going to leap across the room and attack someone at any moment. Then it had been that flirty, smug, leering look that just made you fidget. Then it was being worried someone would catch on. It was being worried about Derek. About the pack. About anyone noticing and blowing your cover. But now?

It’s normal. You’re not sure how long it’s actually been normal, but it is. Everyone notices that he’s looking at you, but no one is phased by it. No one raises an eyebrow when it slips that you’ve been talking and discussing plans with each other. No one even mentions that when Peter gets himself a glass of water, he gets one for you too.

You sit there and try to pinpoint when this happened, when everybody assumed and was apparently okay with you and Peter being friends. For the life of you though, you can’t figure it out. Did they know he was training you? Could they tell something more had happened? Did they care?

Once the meet is over, everyone disperses in their usual fashion. Peter slips out with you and due to opportune timing, you get the elevator to yourselves. You stand next to each other, waiting for the door to shut.

“I want to increase your defense training,” Peter tells you when the door shuts. You finish sliding your coat back onto your shoulders and look at him quizzically. “If Argent is close, then chances are this whole thing is going to blow up soon. I want you ready.” He doesn’t look at you, watching the numbers descend as the elevator clunks downward.

“Tonight then?” you offer. He looks at you out of the corner of his eye and raises his brow.

“Not too tired after the run?”

“My trainer’s been working on my stamina.” You smile and straighten up, a little proud. You really have come a long way. He flashes a smile back at you as the door opens to the ground floor.

“Tonight it is then.” You both exit Derek’s building, the rush of the cold instantly making your face flush up. “I’ll see you in a few hours.” He puts his hand on your shoulder and gives a little squeeze before walking off towards his car.

It dawns on you that this is the first time since your tryst that you’d be back at his place. Was sex expected again? Were you supposed to stay the night this time? Hell, you haven’t even kissed again since that night, had barely seen each other for the most part. Judging from the way he flirted this morning, he hadn’t lost interest, but this is all still so new.

You take a deep breath and start walking towards your car. 

“Not complicated,” you tell yourself. “Not complicated.”


	26. Dark Figure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things take a turn during training.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for staying with me. I swear I’m still working on this and not abandoning you!

“That’s right, sweetheart,” Peter growls from underneath you. “Ride me.” His hands on your waist help to guide your hips, to push and pull you from him as you grind down. You put one hand on the back of the couch to steady yourself as your eyes flutter shut, letting yourself get lost in the feeling of him buried inside of you. 

It had happened so easily that it had almost surprised you. You had spent over an hour working on your defense, on dodging his hits and ducking away. The amount of flirtation fluctuated between hot and heavy to nonexistent. There were times he’d pin you down and get real close to you and others where he stood back up and critiqued you in a very serious manner. You both slipped between the two moods almost seamlessly.

Then one time you lingered on the flirtation too long and neither of you even tried to stop it. He got into your space, any intention of continuing your training forgotten, and when you wrapped your arms around his neck, it was officially over. He’d picked you up as you kissed, wrapped your legs around his waist and brought you over to the couch where he sat you on top of his lap. 

Clothes were shed quickly and even more so than the first time, the heat and impatience takes over. There was no foreplay, no savoring the moment. Peter’s pants didn’t even make it off his hips. By the time you undid the zipper and pulled him out, you were lined up and his hands on his hips were urging you down onto him.

“Fuck,” he groans. You open your eyes just in time to see his roll to the back of his head briefly. When they come back to you, they’re dark and hungry. His lips part in a silent moan and his fingers start to dig into your hips, start lifting you up down a little faster. He swells just a little inside of you, filling you even more and you know he’s close.

You pick up your pace, rising and falling on his lap a little quicker, your thighs starting to burn just slightly. He eases his grip on your waist and brings one hand to your front, his thumb finding your clit. The unexpected spark of pleasure causes you to shudder and lose your pace for a moment. You sink down onto him, your body almost crumpling forward and dipping your head into his shoulder.

He chuckles in your ear and moves his thumb in a small, slow circle, eliciting another shudder and a moan from you. Not wanting him to have the pleasure of unraveling you that easily, you take your hand off the couch and thread your fingers in his hair, pulling his head back as you straighten up, making him look at you as you start to push yourself up and down again.

It doesn’t take long, both of you trying to push each other over the edge first. You break first, body clenching around him, fingers gripping in his hair. When he follows, his hips press up into yours, trying to reach as deep inside of you as he physically can. There are broken, choked sounds that rise up out of both of you, hollowed moans that fill the space between you.

As the high starts to ebb, you feel your body start to relax and you put your full weight into his lap, the ache in your legs starting to make itself prominently known. Your grip on his hair releases and you reach back to the couch again to help steady yourself.

A small rumble comes from deep in Peter’s chest when he moves his hands up over your bare body to rake his hands through your hair. He gives the slightest pull on the back of your head and brings you forward, bringing your mouth down to his.

He kisses you slowly but not lazily. You melt into him, suddenly tired and feeling satisfied. You lean your chest into his and his hands trace down your jawline. You part briefly, both of you still trying to catch your breath.

“I could get used to this,” he mumbles. You let out a breathy giggle in response and just rest your forehead on his for a moment before leaning back in for another kiss.

In the moments between the kisses and when Peter gently lifts you off of him, you get lost. You could get used to this too. You’re sure it’s just the adrenaline of something new and exciting, the thrill of someone new, but you’re enjoying it. In those few moments, the worry of how to keep things uncomplicated fades away and it somehow doesn’t seem strange that sitting naked in Peter’s lap, slowly kissing him feels almost natural.

But then he gently lifts you up off of him and sets you to the side, breaking your kiss. The heat of his body is gone and you’re once again, sitting naked on the couch next to him with that wave of insecurities starting leak in. You seriously hope this part of the whole thing will go away soon.

You bend down and reach for your discarded shirt, quick to cover yourself back up as Peter fixes himself. He tucks his dick back into his underwear and jeans but doesn’t bother to re-zip them. The crotch of them is pretty soaked through and he’ll have to change them anyways.

“I’ve got steaks I can cook,” he offers, watching you from the side of his eye as you ungracefully shimmy your pants back on. You can tell he’s holding back a laugh at the sight of you.

“That sounds good,” you tell him, biting back your own little laugh. “Let me clean up a little and I can help.” He pauses and raises an eyebrow at you.

“ _Can_ you even cook?” he questions. You fumble for an answer. If you were honest, your cooking was more boxed food and putting chicken breasts in the oven, nothing nearly as advanced as steak. 

“I can chop vegetables,” you say with fake pride. Peter chuckles at you and pushes himself off the couch.

“Think you could manage to boil some water and cook some rice?” he teases. You smile up at him, noticing that you like how disheveled his hair looks right now.

“I think I can handle that.”

—

Cleaning up doesn’t take too long. You consider a shower, but decide against it. Showering feels too much like a “girlfriend” thing to do after sex. So instead you just use the sink to wash your face with his generic soap and wet your hair a little in hopes to reduce any sweat clinging to the strands. You change into some more comfortable clothes from your bag, ones that weren’t worked out in and exit the bathroom.

You expect to hear dinner starting, the sizzle of steak on the pan or maybe even the smell of fresh food, but are met with nothing but silence when you walk into the hall. You drop your bag off in the living room before entering the kitchen. Peter hasn’t started on dinner, hasn’t even pulled ingredients out of the fridge yet. He’s standing at the counter, staring out the window silently.

“What’s going-”

“Quiet,” he cuts you off, not even turning to look at you. His body is tense, sense perked up, head tilted just the slightest bit, listening carefully. There’s a flush of concern and you try to push it down. 

Keeping quiet, you walk carefully across the kitchen to stand beside him. He doesn’t acknowledge you when you almost press into his shoulder so you can see out the window too. It’s dark by now, patches of the outside world illuminated by other people’s apartment lights and the moon reflecting off an icy pond between his building and the one behind it. It’s started snowing again, light flakes gently floating down to the ground, disappearing in the dark and seemingly forming out of nowhere when they hit the light.

“What is it?” you whisper, not seeing anything of concern. You flick your eyes over to his to see them glowing that cold blue. It sends a shiver down your spine that you don’t like and wonder if maybe you don’t want to see what he’s seeing.

“Where’s your phone?” His voice is hard, but quiet, as though he’s afraid of being heard. It both scares you and puts you at ease that it’s controlled and calm. 

“In the other room, why?” Peter’s eyes stay glued to their place outside while you keep shifting back and forth, trying to see where exactly he’s looking and what the hell he sees. “I can go get it,” you say quickly, pushing yourself away from the counter and turning. His hand snaps out and clutches your arm.

“Don’t.” His fingers curl around your forearm firmly. You realize you’re starting to forcefully control your breath in an attempt to control your heartbeat which is picking up quickly. “Slowly walk over to the table. My phone is there. Text Argent my address and then call Derek.” His directions are easy enough but it feels like if you managed to mess it up, you’d somehow end up dead. “Understand?”

“Yes,” you whisper. His fingers loosen around your arm instantly. You don’t question him, simply follow his orders as he stated, both of you easily slipping right back into training mode.

You find Argent’s contact info in Peter’s phone and send off Peter’s address, surprised that you even remember it. You think about sending off a follow up text, but you figure if Peter wanted you to explain, he would have told you. As you dial Derek, you turn to watch Peter, his back to you, shoulders tense.

“What?” Derek barks through the phone. It takes you a second to stumble through some words, realizing you didn’t know what to tell him.

“Uhh, it’s me,” you say awkwardly.

“Do I even want to know why you’re calling from Peter’s phone?” You can hear the cringe in his voice, can practically see the way he’s pinching the bridge of his nose.

“We’ve got a problem, I think,” you tell him quickly, trying to get his mind off the topic. Peter reaches his hand silently behind him, motioning for you to hand him the phone.

“What’s going on? Are you okay?” The concern in his voice makes you feel bad. You don’t even know exactly what’s happening yet. You don’t really respond, before handing the phone to Peter. 

“She’s here,” Peter says into the phone. The words make your stomach drop, no matter how calmly he says them. “Looks like she’s casing the place, probably been here for a while.” You dart back to the window, squinting your eyes and looking even harder. You still can’t see a thing. Peter exchanges a few more curt words with Derek, answering questions, but not giving much information before hanging up.

“What do we do?” you ask him.

“We wait. She doesn’t seem to be moving, but I don’t see the Cerberus.” He keeps staring, but his shoulders roll back and stiffen just the littlest bit more. “And I don’t like that.”  The deep breaths aren’t doing much to slow your heart anymore. The nervousness is slowly being replaced by a creeping fear and your hands are starting to get a little slick.

“Do you need me to do anything?” you ask softly.

“Don’t leave my sight.” You nod your head, assuming he’d either see you in his peripheral vision or take your silence as acceptance. You really didn’t have much intention of disappearing and investigating anything on your own anyways.

There’s a scratching sound coming suddenly from the living room, small claws against his front door. The sound makes you jump and Peter’s eyes snap away from the window. A howl sounds from outside, not a werewolf howl, but a regular, average-sized dog howl. You never thought a such a simple sound would ever send a cool dread coursing through you.

“Shit,” Peter curses. His eyes had gone back to the window, while yours focused on the living room, as if you’d be able to see through the walls and the door and see exactly what was on the other side. “She’s gone.”

“What?” You look back to the darkness outside and even though it looks the exact same to you, it just feels different. The scratching starts up again and Peter finally turns away from the window completely.

“Let’s hope Argent drives fast.” Peter grabs your hand and is suddenly pulling you out the kitchen and down the hall. “This isn’t going to be good.”


	27. Firefight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter fights the Cerberus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at me! 2 updates within a week’s time? That’s insane!

Peter’s pace is fast, his grip strong around your hand. He practically drags you down the hall and into his bedroom. Once he pulls you in, he shuts the door and shuffles you towards the back corner, his hands on your shoulders, pushing you back as far as he can.

“What are we doing?” you ask, voice more breathless and scared than you want it to be. The dog howls again, louder this time, sounding bigger and deeper. Both of you look to the bedroom door. You can’t tell if it’s gotten through the front door, but Peter can. His eyes are glowing and you can feel the beginnings of claws gently scraping against your shoulders. “Peter?” Your hands come to his waist just in case the shake in your voice isn’t enough to get his attention.

“You stay here and stay quiet,” he tells you, his eyes coming back to yours. The blue is piercing, commanding in its own nature. “There’s a tree outside of that window that you can get to and climb down if it gets through.” You keep flicking your eyes from one of his to the other, not liking the seriousness in his voice. “You get to the ground and you _run_.”

“What? No!” you protest in a hushed whisper.

“Do not argue with me right now.” His fangs start to show and if you had more time, you’d notice and find it weird how it doesn’t scare you in even the slightest anymore. But you don’t. Because you’re too busy focusing on your pounding heart and the fear of leaving Peter behind to face that thing alone.

There’s a loud bang that echoes through the apartment and even you can tell it’s the sound of the front door swinging open. Your hands hold onto Peter a little tighter, refusing to let him leave. He doesn’t give you a choice though, taking his hands off your shoulders and down to your forearms to forcefully remove you before darting away from you back to the door.

“Get out and run,” he commands one last time before disappearing back into the hall.

You stand there, frozen with indecision and a fear you thought you wouldn’t have anymore. You look down at your hands, still held out in front of you like you’re still holding onto him, and are almost embarrassed to find them shaking. Your breath gets caught in your throat.

The only thing that snaps you out of it, is the sound of Peter howling. It’s so different than the dog, than the Cerberus. You take one look at the window and one look at the door before making your decision. It’s not so much a decision as it is a mixture of instinct and training.

The window isn’t locked, which you’ll scold him for later, but it makes it quick and easy to open. You use your elbow to pop out the corners of the screen and then your hands to give it a quick push, sending it tumbling to the ground below you. Watching it fall makes three floors up look a lot higher than it ever did before.

You block out the sounds of fighting and the feeling of utter fear burning in your chest long enough to keep your hands stable to clamber your way down the tree. It’s hard to focus, to look through the darkness and be able to judge which branches are too thin to hold your weight, to assess the quickest path down.

Once your feet slam painfully onto the ground, it takes you approximately a minute and a half to run to your car. You might have gotten there faster if you had shoes on, but with no time to prepare for a run, you had to deal with gravel and snow biting into your feet while trying not to slip on any ice.

You glance up at Peter’s apartment and can see shadows of figures moving quickly across the windows. You hear the faint sounds of crashing as they tackle each other and immediately turn your attention back to your car. Stealing yourself for the pain, you batter your elbow into the driver’s side window.

The glass shatters, but the sound is instantly drowned out by the blaring of your car alarm going off. It rings in your skull painfully and you curse yourself for locking the damn thing. You don’t even open the door, just reach in and pull the handle to unlock the trunk.

You rush to the back of the car, throwing the trunk up so you can get to your knives. Another thing you started doing – keeping a spare set of combat knives and a belt back there just in case. Now you’re thankful that you had. You grab the ones you’re best at handling, one in each hand, and dart back towards the apartment stairs.

His door is wide open and the first thing you see is blood, blood all over that expensive carpet you’d always been so worried about ruining. Then, when you actually get inside his apartment, you can see Peter on the ground, pinned down with a black dog on top of him, giant paws on his shoulders, a snarling snout inches from his face.

“Hey!” you shout, out of panic, just to get the thing’s attention. It looks at you with yellow eyes and growls. There’s no way it’s at full size. Judging from all the other evidence, it would barely fit in the room if it was full size. Now it was only a little bigger than a full-grown wolf.

And even that was terrifying.

You brandish your knives in front of you, prepared for it to charge at you. Peter takes the opportunity while it’s distracted to dig his claws into the thing’s chest. Even with his shoulder pinned down, he manages to get them in pretty deep, deep enough to make it yelp. And turn its attention back to Peter. Which is not what you want.

Before it can raise its paw towards Peter, you throw your knife. You haven’t had the greatest knife training and your adrenaline makes you sloppy. The handle bounces off its hind quarters and dully falls to the floor. The Cerberus barely pays it any attention.

It rears its head upwards, opening its mouth and snarling at Peter, still pinned beneath it, still trying to dig his claws into its belly. You can see saliva dripping off its sharp teeth and you move without thinking. Sprinting forward, you grab your remaining knife with both hands and raise it up.

You throw your whole weight into the stab. Pushing your feet off the ground for a little more momentum, you bring your blade down right into the Cerberus’ lower back, right by its hip. The knife slides in a lot easier than you thought, the knife avoiding any bone and sinking right up to the hilt. It sounds stupid, but it feels too similar to cutting into raw meat with a steak knife for your liking, too mundane and normal.

The Cerberus yowls in surprised pain and there’s a large pressure on your chest, hurling you backwards. It kicks you into the nearest wall, your entire body suddenly numb. You collide with the plaster with such force, you’d bet there was a you-shaped dent there now. Your body crumples to the ground and your vision blurs. Breathing is suddenly hard, as if there’s a weight bearing down on your chest, preventing you from inhaling.

You can barely hear Peter yell out your name, everything spinning and swirling inside of your brain, mashing together until it’s one jumbled mass. There’s a burning near your sternum, a distant feeling of warm liquid slowly inching its way down towards your belly. When you finally take in a breath, it’s warm and sticky. A voice deep in your head is telling you to get up. You have to get up. Move you idiot!

It’s another pained roar from the Cerberus that snaps you out of it. The sound reverberates in your chest and when your vision clears, you realize the warm air around you was actually the beast’s breath fanning over your face. Its head has turned now though, twisted away from the focus of finishing you off to try and reach Peter again, who attached himself to the thing’s back.

Peter pulls the Cerberus away from you, bringing it back towards the middle of the living room. You notice your knife on the floor, the blade doused in blood having either fallen or been ripped from the Cerberus. Moving is painful, but you cringe through it, crawling across the floor, using what little grip you can get on the carpet fibers to help pull you forward.

You don’t look up. You can’t. You can hear the sounds of the fight, hear the growls and the painful cries and the destruction of the apartment. You focus on the knife, focus on something you can _do_. You wrap your hand around the handle before you even turn to look at them.

You look just in time to see the Cerberus swipe at Peter’s chest with its claws. His shirt tears open as easily as wet paper and blood quickly replaces the color of his skin in the holes. You scream out, trying to get its attention again, but it doesn’t even flinch. Peter doesn’t back down, his hands going for its face and snout.

Gunshots ring through the apartment. You duck your head to the ground and cover your neck, instinct flattening you as much as you can. They don’t last long, maybe a few seconds, before everything is eerily quiet. You look up, first to Peter to find him peeking his head out from the kitchen, having ducked through the doorway for cover. Where the Cerberus had stood, there was nothing but a thin grey smoke and you can’t tell if it’s from the gunshots or if it’s from however the Cerberus vanished.

There’s a hand on your back and it startles you. You roll onto your side, away from the touch, trying to raise your blade. Chris Argent looks down at you, crouched towards the floor, a gun strapped around his chest, hands raised slightly for you to see.

“Easy,” he coaxes. You let out a heavy breath and let your head thunk to the ground. It hurts, but your body can scream in pain later. Right now you just feel relief. “Are you alright?” He grabs your hand, giving you a pull and easing you up to a sit despite you just wanting to lay there.

“I’m okay,” you croak out, throat surprisingly dry. His hand lingers, on your arm while the other comes gently to your back. His skin is warm and you hope that’s not because your skin is cold and in shock.

“I’ve got her,” Peter tells him sternly, coming down to his knees and pushing Argent’s hands off you. “I’ve got her,” he repeats a little more hostilely when Chris seems reluctant to move. You can feel both of them looking you over, know you should be worried about your own injuries, but all you can focus on is the blood covering Peter. The shredded clothes and the open wounds, and the bruises you’re not sure are fading like they should.

“I’ve got a first aid kit in the car,” Argent offers, moving to stand up and adjust his gun. “Derek’s doing a perimeter sweep, but the place she’s probably left by now.”

Peter’s eyes are still scanning you over, his hands on your arms, slowly patting down them, avoiding your core and anything other than extremities. His mouth is drawn into a thin, firm line and you realize his claws and fangs are gone. Without thinking, you reach up to touch his face.

“What hurts?” he asks as Argent turns to leave the room. “And don’t say you’re fine. _What hurts_?” His fingers slide down to your hands, taking the knife from you and stroking them, calming a shake you hadn’t realized you had.

“Umm,” you fumble for words, brain fogging up again. “My head. It hurts to breathe, but not too bad.” He nods, one of his hands coming up to gently touch your chest. It stings and you flinch backwards, eyes snapping down. “Oh my god,” you whisper. Your shirt it ripped in a few spots and you can see the claw marks on your upper breasts and chest, blood leaking down from them.

“Careful,” he warns as your hand comes up to touch the wounds. “They’re not deep. It probably just caught you when it kicked you.” You’re pretty sure you’re bruised too. You can’t see it yet, but there’s no way you’re not going to be bruised.

“Are you okay?” Your attention shifts back to Peter’s chest and shoulders. Big black and blue bruises spotted over his skin make you worry. “You’re not healing.” 

“I told you to run,” he says sharply, ignoring your words.

“I ran to the car,” you joke lightly. His eyes don’t reflect your humor.

“You could have been killed.” He sounds like he wants to be angry with you, but just isn’t right now. You suspect the scolding and the yelling will come later.

Both Derek and Chris come back through the front door, carrying supplies. Derek immediately drops down beside you, asking the same questions, touching you the same way Peter had. You decide it’s not worth it to fight him. 

–

The next two hours are filled with all three men bustling around Peter’s apartment and not letting you do anything. They take turns helping to bandage your wounds or just to keep an eye on you. It’s sweet at first, then annoying, and finally just sad.

The more you think about it, the more useless you feel. What did you accomplish? You stabbed it once? Got kicked across the room and essentially taken out in one hit? And now you had all the men taking care of you like a child? _This_ is what you were trying to avoid and yet here you are, sitting in Peter’s kitchen swallowing down Advil while Derek palpates your stomach, checking for internal bleeding.

Derek knows not to press the issue. He doesn’t ask why you were with Peter so late or what you were doing. He doesn’t scold you for getting in the middle of it all or tell you he was right. He looks at you softly, just happy you’re alright, which you’re grateful for.

Chris extends the same courtesy, not making any comments or asking questions when he hands you your workout bag so you can change clothes again. He isn’t a dumb man and you would venture to say he’s put two and two together by now. He’s also smart enough to know it’s none of his business.

While Chris and Derek are talking to the cops and telling god knows what excuse to the worried neighbors, Peter guides you to the bathroom. He helps you take off your tattered shirt lifting it over your extended arms as you sit on the toilet. It hurts, but he makes it quick so you can relax again.

Your bra is still intact, though you don’t expect it to hold up to see another day, the edges frayed and little tears on the band. He lets you keep it on, not needing to remove it to clean you up. He removes the temporary bandages they’d put there earlier and uses a warm washcloth to carefully clear away the dried blood down your body.

He is uncharacteristically quiet as he works. He barely looks up at your face, eyes glued to your broken skin and trying to fix it. He applies sturdier bandages after disinfecting everything and making sure you don’t need stitches. He works quickly, but efficiently and gently. The pain is minimal and when he’s done, he hands you the shirt out of your bag.

“You’re an idiot.” He says it quietly, but harshly. 

“I wasn’t just going to leave you,” you tell him, making sure your tone is just as hard as his. Are you upset you didn’t do more? Yes. Do you regret trying? Hell no.

“I would have left you.” You both know it’s a lie somehow. There’s too much bite in his voice, an overcompensation. Neither of you bother to argue over it though and you ignore the slight sting it leaves anyways.

“That thing kicks a lot harder than you,” you comment, changing the subject. “If you’re holding back on me, you need to stop.” It’s your way of saying you’re not done. Even if he tries to tell you no now, you’re not going to let him. You’re not giving up. 

“I think that can wait until you heal up a bit.” His way of not arguing with you.

Things are quiet as you both finally look at each other. He stands up and extends his hand to help you up as well. You lock eyes and it suddenly seems so much harder to break the stare than it was to avoid it. You don’t let go of his hand, let your fingers run over it instead.

You both take the moment to just… _breathe_. You can slow down and watch each other, feel the other’s presence without the fear or adrenaline or an abundance of pain. You gravitate closer, leaning into each other’s space for comfort. He gives your hand a small squeeze and inhales once before leaning back away.

“Don’t do that again,” he warns, voice snapping back into the harsh, unyielding way it was before.

“Then don’t be the hero,” you counter. It takes just a moment for it to dawn on you. It’s that word that does it. _Hero._ Why hadn’t Peter run with you? Why did he not go out the window and take off? Why did he stay?

He sees the realization in your eyes and straightens his back, leaning even further away from you and dropping your hand. He moves to the bathroom door, to leave you there to finish any cleaning up you want to do.

“Don’t fool yourself,” he tells you over his shoulder. “I’m definitely not the hero type.” 


	28. As it Goes On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things keep moving forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I apologize because this is overdue and it’s mainly a filler chapter. I know the next big plot point, but I have such writer’s block on how to actually get to it. So I did more of a quick overview and filler here.

It’s late by the time everyone clears out, for the concerned (and nosey) neighbors to slink back into their own apartments, for Sherriff Stilinski to shuffle his men away, and for you and the three men to regather yourselves in Peter’s kitchen.

The edginess has waned and now there’s a tired feeling in the air. You find yourself not even wanting your coffee Peter’s made for you, just waiting for the appropriate time to leave so you can go to bed. You’ll figure everything out in the morning. Even that couldn’t be so easy though.

Apparently, you’re not allowed to go home. Chris brings it up first, Peter scoffs as though it’s ridiculous anyone would think otherwise, and Derek simply nods. They give you what would be considered good reasons if your brain was in the business of thinking clearly at the moment; too dangerous, you could be followed, you shouldn’t be alone, you’re injured.

It ends up being decided you’ll stay with Derek. Peter jokes his place isn’t “house guest ready” and both Hales glare at Argent for even offering up his spare room. Quite frankly, you’re too tired and sore to argue with them. You ask what Peter’s going to do, but he insists on staying in his apartment. All three agree that there’s very little chance of another attack here tonight and that’s good enough for him.

Derek shuffles you out shortly after, giving you little chance to talk to Peter or even say a proper goodbye.

–

The next morning, after waking up on Derek’s couch and using your finger as a toothbrush, you drive yourself straight back to Peter’s apartment. Derek reluctantly lets you go after checking you over and checking you again for any signs of internal bleeding. Besides a lot of pain and bruising, he deems you alright.

His apartment is different in the daytime. When you come up to the door, you look at the entrance a little bewildered, wondering why in the hell his door is open before you realize it’s because the door is bashed in, trim splintered on the frame, hinges barely hanging on. You hadn’t even noticed it last night.

Feeling awkward, you poke your head into his living room before slowly stepping in and calling out his name. There’s blood, now dried brown, on his carpet. It varies from drops to full out puddles you’ve sure have sunken down into the padding. You wonder if he’s going to have to replace it. Furniture is scattered, tables broken, some shards of glass from god knows what are dotted on the floor as well.

There’s no answer from Peter so you slowly walk through the living room, probably looking ridiculous as you try to avoid any of the mess while favoring your right leg and limping slightly. You call out his name again as you slink through. You make it to the kitchen entrance right as he rounds the corner, almost running into each other.

Your body startles and you let out a small surprised shout as one of your hands clutches your chest. The other grips the edge of the trim for support. Peter raises an eyebrow at you.

“I’m pretty sure I trained you _not_ to react like that,” he teases. You whack the center of his chest with the back of your hand and you both laugh slightly.

“You just startled me. I’m not exactly operating at full capacity right now,” you joke with him.

“Why are you here?” he prods, skipping any more banter and small talk. The question throws you a little bit and you’re unsure how to answer. He takes a step back, giving you a little space and simply waits.

“To see if you were doing alright.” You hate how it sounds more like a question when you say it.

“I’m not the human here. I heal.” He cocks an eyebrow at you. You shrug at him and shake your head.

“I’m fine,” you protest.

“Oh!” He raises his eyebrows in a mocking manner, clearly not believing you. “Okay then.” He slowly walks backwards until his back is against the furthest counter from you. He crosses his arm and cocks out his hip too casually. “Why don’t you walk on over here then?”

You take a deep, frustrated breath. Not wanting to back down or let him be right, you bite your bottom lip and straighten your spine. You move slowly, one step at a time, trying desperately not to show the limp even though every time you put weight on your left leg there’s a pain that shoots from your knee to your hip. It makes your steps pathetically small and slow.

Peter watches patiently, only cringing in the slightest just to make sure you know he’s not fooled. When a step sends a particularly painful shot up the back of your thigh, you falter, stumble on that limp, and he rolls his eyes, leaning off the counter and walking back up to you, stopping you from doing any more damage. 

“That didn’t look fine to me,” he tells you, taking you by the shoulders and gently guiding you to his nearest chair. “Sit,” he commands. You choose not to argue and with his help, sit down carefully. It hurts. Everything is sore and stiff, but you try to mask as much as you can.

“Derek checked me over before I left,” you tell him, hoping it will save you from some of the poking and prodding. It doesn’t. He still runs his hands over you, palpating your core and peeling back the bandage on your chest to check the claw marks.

You scan his skin while he does his exam. You can’t see any bruises, which makes you feel a little better, but he’s got a shirt on and you can’t see the bulk of his body, can’t see the parts that had taken the worst of it. From what you can tell though, he’s doing alright.

“Your apartment is trashed,” you say dumbly, trying to find something to talk about.

“It’s all replaceable.” He’s distracted, his fingers gently putting your bandage back into place, pressing softly to make sure it sticks.

“Your landlord has to be pissed.” You’re relieved to hear him chuckle at your teasing. His hands trace back up your collar bones and rest on your shoulders.

“It’s adorable you think I have a landlord,” he says while walking away from you to open his freezer. “I _am_ the landlord.” He dips his hand into the freezer before looking back at you. “Ice pack or peas?”

“Ice pack.” You smile lightly, having learned not to argue when he tells you to ice. “So you own the whole complex?” He shrugs.

“I own a couple of properties throughout the state. The first thing you learn when you have money is that you have to keep making it to keep it.” He walks back over and hands you a soft ice pack. “For your hip. You probably have a pinched nerve.” You mold it over your hip and butt, shifting so you can sit on it just a little. The cold bites at you even through your pants, but it fades quickly.

“I take it she didn’t come back last night?” you ask as he crouches down in front of you, helping you to fit the ice pack in the most effective way.

“No sign of her or the Cerberus,” he tells you. “Argent is doing a sweep of your place to make sure you can go back.”

While you’re both trying to fit the ice pack over your hip, force it to hold a shape over your curve, your hands slip underneath his, his fingers curling around your palms. Eventually your hands drift away from your hip, letting the ice pack fall slightly limp and simply hold each other’s hands as they rest between your legs. 

Neither of you say anything for a minute. His touch is gentle, calloused pads of his fingers drifting over you up to your wrists and then back down. There’s a chill in the air, probably from being forced to leave the front door open all night, but his skin feels warm, leaving a trail of heat wherever he touches. You turn your hands over in his and take hold of his palms, squeezing lightly.

“I’m not fragile.” It comes out softer, more of a whisper than you thought it would. Neither of you are looking at each other, instead both of your heads are ducked down, watching your hands.

“You’re human. Humans are fragile by nature.” His voice is just as quiet and it suddenly feels like you’re speaking so quietly because someone might be able to hear you. It’s absurd, but the simple fact that his front door is ripped off and his house had been invaded washes away any sense of privacy, even in his kitchen.

“Which is why you’re teaching me to defend myself.” It’s another way of making sure he knows you’re not quitting. You’re not done.

“I need to teach you to listen better,” he says with an air of sour humor. “To run when I tell you to run.” You squeeze his hands again and he looks up at you, catching your eyes. “Next time, you _will_ run.” It’s hard and cold and you think about making a remark, telling him you’re only going to run if he does, but his tone changes your mind. He drops your hands and stands back up, breaking whatever moment there was between you.

Things change after that. Peter gets distant, but not necessarily cold. He doesn’t push you away, but he also doesn’t answer you as quickly or talk to you as much. That day, he gives you some meds and a small jar of his family salve before ushering you out, saying you need to heal and he needs to redecorate.

The first week after that is filled with Peter, Derek, and Argent taking their own measures making sure you’re safe. It gets annoying, but you try to remind yourself they have good intentions. By the end of it, the pack knows everything that happened and has made a plan to start being more aggressive, though you’re still not clear on what the actual plan is.

Your body heals fairly quickly. The bruises fade and the pain gets less and less each day. A couple of days after you’re confident you’re able to walk normally, you go back over to Peter’s. He’s got a new door and new carpet. He’s still missing some furniture, but the place looks more complete.

You try to get him to spar with you a little, but he refuses. You throw a hit at him which he catches easily and spins you around. Pinning your back to his chest, he breathes in your ear, scolds you for your sluggishness and over eagerness. You find yourself not caring about his words and relaxing into his grip. It’s then you realize that you miss him.

“When can we start up again?” you ask, leaning back into him. His head dips down slightly, lips brushing along your neck.

“Start up which part exactly?” His grip loosens and his hands come to your hips, pulling your ass firmer against him. “Training is going to wait at least another week.” One of his hands slips around to your front, fingers dipping into your waistband teasingly. “But _this_?” he growls, hand making its way down to cup between your legs. “This might be alright.”

Body buzzing, you’re in no mood to argue or reject him. He takes it a little slow at first, testing you to see if anything’s going to hurt, changes positions immediately if you show discomfort. You both try to take it slow, but you end up colliding into each other, the rush of excitement of being together only being heightened by not having seen each other recently. 

He makes you coffee afterwards, offers his shower which you politely refuse. You leave shortly after finishing your coffee. He doesn’t walk you to the door or kiss you goodbye.

The witch makes her next move the day after that. And that’s when you realize you might be in over your head.


	29. The Target on Your Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone ends up in the hospital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is more of a Derek/Reader friendship chapter but it’s important and I like it.

It started with a strange dream, though looking back on it, you’re not entirely sure how much of it was _actually_ a dream. You were walking down your hallway in the dead of the night, windows showing nothing but blackness outside. You were barefoot, the wooden floor beneath you unusually cold as you kept moving. The hallway seemed to keep going forever, no matter how many steps you took, you didn’t get closer to the end.

There was a breeze gently swishing around you, almost barely noticeable and yet it was the thing that drew your attention the most. Where was it coming from? Why was it so cold? Had you left a window open? Was it speaking?

If you concentrated hard enough, you swore you could hear a voice in the breeze. You stopped walking and tried to listen. The voice slowly got clearer and closer, until the breeze turned into the feeling of breath on the back of your neck.

“Oh, you should know better than _that_ ,” a woman’s soft voice tickles your ear. You tell yourself to turn around, but your body won’t move. “I’ll leave,” she says. “If you let me cut off his hand.” There’s a shadow in front of you; Peter. You don’t know how you know, the shape of a body is barely distinguishable, but you’re sure it’s Peter. You try to give out a protest, to open your mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. The woman giggles.

And just like that, you’re awake in your bed. Your phone tells you it’s only five in the morning. You try not to think about the dream too hard, forcing yourself back to sleep. When you wake up again, you don’t give the dream a second thought.

—

It’s almost noon when you get Stiles’ text telling you to come to the hospital. You drive faster than you can remember driving before. You’re pretty sure a couple of the lights you went through were red, but you don’t care. You’re too focused on keeping your hands from shaking and keeping your foot down on the accelerator.

Stiles meets you outside of his room, putting his hands on your arms to calm your frenzy. You try to break free of his grip, but he holds you tightly until you look at him.

“He’s okay,” Stiles reassures you, his words only calming you slightly, tears prickling at your eyes. “He’s not in the greatest shape, but he’s okay.”

“What happened?” You had asked before, but he had promised to tell you when you arrived. “Why isn’t he healing?”

“He _is_ healing, just slowly.” Stiles tells you, talking to you firmly but with compassion. “His place was laced with wolfsbane and then she showed up.” You move to break away from him again and this time he lets you go.

As much as you want to fling the door open, you make the effort to open it slowly, to enter the hospital room with composure and a fake calmness even though it wouldn’t fool him. Even injured, he’d probably be able to smell the fear and worry on you. 

Derek lays on the bed, ugly beige blankets covering most of his body, an IV stuck into his right forearm and a heart rate monitor capped over his index finger. His eyes are open, sunken and tired. Weak. He gives you a small smile.

“I told them not to call you.” His voice cracks when he speaks.

“Good thing no one listens to you.” The humor doesn’t fully come through, but he laughs dryly anyways. You come to the side of the bed and take Derek’s free hand in yours, eyes lifting to the monitors. You can’t read them, don’t understand what most of the numbers mean, but nothing’s flashing or red so you assume it’s all good. “What happened, Derek?”

He gives you a more detailed description than Stiles, but it’s still brief. Talking looks to be painful for him so you stay silent, let him take his time telling you how he came home to his apartment covered in wolfsbane late last night. He was already weak when Kayla Slater walked in the door, when she stabbed him in the chest, ripped him open, and stuffed even more poison inside of him.

“They got it out in time,” Derek says. “I’ll be fine, just need some time to heal.”

“We have to do something.” You squeeze his hand, pushing back tears and keeping your voice steady. “This sitting around and waiting isn’t working.” Derek doesn’t say anything, but squeezes your hand back. “Do we have a plan?”

“Working on it.” You keep glancing up at the monitors, not satisfied with the mysterious numbers it keeps giving you. Derek keeps talking, partly to give you information and partly to keep you distracted. “Argent says she has something that’s amplifying her power. We need to get it away from her.”

“Like a talisman or something?”

“Or something,” Peter’s voice says from the door. You turn to look at him, standing in the doorway. “It’s a freaking one foot tall totem pole that looks like an overpriced knockoff.” He enters the room, eyes briefly looking down on yours and Derek’s interlocked hands. It’s such a small flick of his eyes that it would have been so simple to miss. “And she keeps it in a cave in the woods like an animal.” Peter holds up a brown paper bag you didn’t realize he’s holding. “I got you what you asked for,” he says to Derek.

“You knew he was here?” you ask, feeling the slightest bit of betrayal starting to eat away at you. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Peter casually shrugs. 

“He told me not to.” Tension grows in the air and right now, if Derek had the ability, he’d probably leave the room. Instead, being stuck in that bed, he rolls his eyes and drops his head back.

“Since when do you listen to anyone?” There’s a bite in your tone that you don’t mean to use, but it just comes out. “He’s my friend, my best friend. I deserve to know when something happens to him.” You let go of Derek’s hand even though he tries to hold onto it, just to keep you grounded. “ _Both_ of you!” You turn on Derek and he looks surprised. “I’m sick of this woman coming after you guys and terrorizing us. What the hell is the plan?”

“You don’t need to worry about it,” Peter brushes you off. “We’ve got it covered.” Derek cringes, being smart enough to realize that was the wrong thing to say to you.

“No,” you snap at Peter, walking up to him in the small room. “This is what you’ve been training me for. This is why I’m here. You guys are my friends, my family. I’m not just sitting by. Now what the _hell_ is the plan?” you growl out at him. He stands his ground and just tilts his head. “Well?” you shout, frustrated by his lack of response.

“I’ll tell you,” Derek pipes in. 

“No, you won’t.” Peter glares at his nephew. “She will have no part of this plan. She is going to go home and wait it out.” His cold eyes come back to yours and your blood boils.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” You look back at Derek and he sighs, rolling his eyes again. You clench your fists, releasing your tension into curling your knuckles as tight as you can. “I’m going to get a coffee,” you say through clenched teeth. You turn back to Derek before leaving. “Talk to him.”

— 

When you return, with no coffee – having just roamed the halls for a while instead, Peter isn’t anywhere to be found and Derek is sitting up in his bed. He still looks weak and pale, but it brings a relief to see him in a position other than laying down.

“Your uncle is an ass,” is what you greet him with. Derek gives out another sigh, but leaves out the eye roll. “You guys can’t hide things from me.” You make it a point to soften your voice, to leave the anger at the door when you come to sit beside his bed. “Peter’s been weird and distant ever since we were attacked and now I feel like you’re leaving things out.”

“You’ve gotten better at defending yourself,” he admits. “But you’ve also gotten reckless with that. I don’t want you jumping into this and getting hurt. Again.” He pauses and you don’t fill the gap, sensing there’s something else he’s reluctant to add. “You’re human.” It wasn’t what he wanted to say, but it’s obviously the only thing he can think of instead. 

“So is Stiles,” you counter without missing a beat. “You tell Stiles everything and he always jumps in a lot more recklessly than I do.” He groans.

“There’s a big difference between you and Stiles.” He absentmindedly scratches the skin around the IV in his vein. “For both of us,” he adds a little quieter. You raise an eyebrow at him, waiting for him to keep going. “Look, it’s no secret that I don’t like the whole you and Peter… _thing_ ,” he cringes as he says it. “But… Peter cares about you.” He doesn’t look at you when he says it, instead staring at the yellow wallpaper across the room. “Hales aren’t known for our emotional maturity or intelligence. We’re much better at pushing people away and hiding in our holes. You know that.”

“You don’t want me to get hurt, I get it.” You’re ignoring the little rush of butterflies you get at Derek telling you that Peter cares. The annoyance and frustration with the whole situation is overpowering. The fear is too if you stop to think about it.

“No, you don’t get it.” Derek looks pointedly at you. “Kayla is after us, the Hales. Like you said, you’re my friend. You’re the one person in this town I’ve always trusted and been closest to. And Peter…” he pauses again, not sure how to word it. “You’re the one person that means something to both of us.” It takes you a second to take his words in. “If Kayla wants to draw us in or hurt us, you’re the way to do it. You’re an easy target.”

“So, is your plan to lock me away?” It’s a lot less accusatory than before. It’s a genuine question. If you’re a target, keeping you in the dark wasn’t going to change that much.

“The plan is to end this,” he says. “As fast as we can.”

“You realize I’m not staying out of it, right?” You lean back in your chair and try to relax a little. “You mean something to me too and that means I can’t just turn away. I need to know when things happen.” 

“I still don’t like whatever the hell is going on with you and Peter,” he throws in for good measure, as if you would have forgotten.

There’s a bit of silence where you both come to an easy understanding with each other. You disagree with each other, but there’s only one way this is going to go so you might as well deal with it. Or _he_ might as well, seeing as how it’s going to be going your way.

“So what’s the plan?” you ask for what seems like the hundredth time today.

“We need a distraction, something to draw out both her and the Cerberus.”

“While someone goes in and gets the talisman,” you finish. Derek nods slowly.

“And since she wants a Hale and I’m not obviously not going to be up and moving for at least a little while…” he trails off and lets you put it together. A pit of dread starts to grow in your gut.

“We’re using Peter for bait?”

“We’re using Peter for bait.”


	30. Negotiation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Peter play bait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the whole story was kind of based off this piece which I had previously wrote. (Though Kayla was the Nogitsune.) But I’ve been looking forward to this part for a long time. Hopefully it’s not horrible.

“I’m going with.”

“Like hell you are!” Peter’s voice booms through the hospital room. Everyone is stuffed inside, all talking over each other in the small space, voices bouncing and echoing off the walls. “You’re going to stay right here until this is done!”

“You’re going to need backup,” you argue, trying not to raise your voice, which is becoming more difficult by the moment.

“She’s not wrong,” Stiles tries to back you up, but a quick glare from Peter makes him back off. You still hold out your hand to Stiles as if his opinion held weight, making the non-verbal _See? Told you so!_ gesture to Peter.

“I’ll be nearby with flash arrows if anything goes wrong. No one _has_ to be with him,” Allison offers in rebuttal and Peter mimics your gesture with a sour, stubborn look. Derek has moved passed the eye rolling and has resorted to tilting his head back in his bed and closing his eyes, pretending none of you exist. 

“You need someone with you, to be a second set of ears and eyes right there with you. Scott is going to need all the time he can get and you’ll need help keeping her distracted.” You step up to him, getting into his space and looking him right in the eye. “You need someone.”

“Actually, sweetheart, I don’t.” His eyes squint at you and your blood starts to boil.

“Don’t _sweetheart_ me!” You poke him in the chest and he looks down, nearly amused. “You like to act like a big tough guy, but you need backup and you know I can do it.” You keep poking him, jabbing your finger into his breastbone over and over. “So stop being so damn stupid and stubborn and let me help!”

“Okay, okay,” Chris Argent’s voice comes from behind you, putting his hands on your shoulders and pulling you back, away from Peter. “Let’s take a break.” Peter’s eyes linger on Chris’ hands as he gently squeezes your shoulders. “Allison and I have supplies to gather, let’s meet back here in an hour.”

“Fine with me. I have things I need to get too,” you bite at Peter before shaking Chris off of you and walking out of the room. Peter is no more than ten steps behind you, hot on your heels and still keeping his distance. “Are you going to follow me home?” You don’t look back at him,

“Follow you home and tie you up to keep you there maybe,” he snarks, still following until you reach the elevator where you violently stab at the down button, frustrated at being forced to stand there and wait.

“Well _sweetheart_ ,” you mock. “Unless you’re tying me to the bed and playing with me, you’re sadly mistaken.” There’s no humor in your tone, but he chuckles nonetheless.

“Not a bad idea. Tire you out so that you’re incapable of doing anything else today.” You roll your eyes, forcing yourself not to look at him. Instead, you stare at the top of the elevator, watching the numbers change until it reaches your floor. The doors open with a metallic ding.

“I’m going with.” You walk into the elevator to stab at another button, hoping somehow the doors will close before he gets in with you. Seeing as how the elevator isn’t broken and has precautions against crushing people between its doors, Peter easily makes it into the elevator to stand next to you. “Are you really following me home?”

“If that’s what it takes, yes.” The doors close and the box shudders when it starts to move downwards. “It’s too dangerous.”

“Peter,” you sigh frustrated. You take a deep breath, trying to calm yourself down. “You need backup and it needs to be me.”

“Like hell it does.” There’s an edge in his voice, a slight growl.

“It does,” you insist, finally turning to look at him. “Derek laid everything out for me. I’m a good target for her, someone to go after to get to you and to Derek. Having you _and_ me out there in the woods doubles the chances of luring her out.” He doesn’t argue, doesn’t actually say anything, but avoids eye contact with you. “To top all of that off, _you_ trained me. I’m the most prepared to go out there. If there’s someone you need to trust to be at your back, who would you want it to be?” His eyes flash to yours and even though he doesn’t say it, the answer is clear in his gaze. The elevator dings again and opens up. “That’s what I thought.”

You leave the elevator, satisfied you’ve won the conversation. There’s a lack of footsteps following behind you and you turn to see Peter still standing in the elevator. You tilt your head and cock out your hip just slightly.

“You coming or what?” you ask. Peter shakes his head, but slowly steps out of the elevator and follows. 

—

When everyone reconvenes in Derek’s room, things go much smoother. Both Derek and Peter are still grumpy about you going along, but they’re compliant, which is nice. With less bickering, the plan develops pretty quickly. You and Peter will wander the woods before sundown, away from the location of her cave which Chris gave to Scott and Stiles who will be going in after the talisman after they get confirmation Kayla and her pet were distracted from either Chris or Allison who would be following you and Peter from a distance. Easy peasy.

—

You can see your breath in front of your face, a puffy cloud of heat amid the bitter air. You briefly wonder why Peter’s breath doesn’t do the same thing, but decide it’s probably just some werewolf side effect. You’ve been walking the woods for just fifteen minutes or so, but it feels like it’s been longer.

“How long do you think before she realizes we’re here?” You find yourself whispering even though you don’t need to. The whole point of being out here is to be found, after all.

“What makes you think she hasn’t already?” His eyes keep surveying out in front of you, body tense and keeping you close. He walks step for step with you, his arm brushing against yours as you walk. “She’s going to toy with us when she shows. We’re going to have to draw it out and play along.” He sounds weary, dreading it.

“We can do that,” you try to say reassuringly, but you’re nervous. You had felt confident right up until now. Now you’re expecting to suddenly feel claws in your back, tearing through your jacket and sending you tumbling face first into the snow on the ground. Now it felt real.

His knuckles keep brushing over yours as your arms bump into each other. His skin feels warm compared to yours. You should have brought gloves and a hat and a scarf and other wintery outdoor clothes, but you didn’t, insisted you would be fine. You wanted to be light on your feet if you needed to run. The less clothes the better.

Almost without thinking about it, you slip your hand into his. His feet stop moving and for a second you think you made a mistake and move to take your hand back, but he tightens his grip, keeping you with him. He turns you to face him and his face softens just a little.

“Relax,” he tells you. He pauses, searches for the right words to steady your heartrate. He struggles to find them, opens his mouth once or twice before quietly saying, “You’re safe.” There’s a lot in those two words. His other hand comes up and his fingertips gently trace along your cheekbone. “You’re safe.”

“Well isn’t that adorable?” A bittersweet and oddly familiar voice floats through the air. “You two are just to die for, aren’t you?” You whip your head around to try to find her, but instead all you see is a black mass of a dog charging at you. Peter sees it at the same time, puts his hand on your chest and pushes hard.

You stumble back, the Cerberus running between the two of you. It takes all of your balance to not fall over onto your ass. The dog circles back and stops in between you and Peter, keeping you separating and growling at you. You take a couple more steps back.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” Kayla asks coyly, stepping out from behind a tree. With black boots and long, dark hair, she looks damn near normal even with the dark red cloak.

“We’re here to negotiate,” Peter says sternly. Kayla steps closer and snaps her fingers. The Cerberus starts to walk towards you. Peter watches its steps carefully and you force yourself to stay still.

“Negotiate?” she laughs. “What on earth do you think you have to negotiate with?” She walks closer to the group, biting her lip with a wicked smile. “The only thing I want is you and your nephew in pain and dead. So, unless you’re about to tell me you’re going to off yourself,” Kayla shrugs and laughs again. “I just don’t see what you can offer.”

The Cerberus gets closer, starts to circle you, its paws meticulous in their movement. You can hear the beast breathing, feel it hot on your legs through your pants. You breathe deeply through your nose, trying not to tense up as you watch it grows larger and larger with each circle around you. Kayla eyes you up and down, piercing and dark eyes that look wrong on a smiling human face. She purses her lips and then looks back at Peter.

Peter stands in his place some ways in front of you, watching carefully, breathing so evenly it’s easy to tell he’s forcing it to be that way. He doesn’t look nervous though and you want to believe that’s not a façade too.

When the Cerberus pauses its circles, it’s just taller than you. It lifts a paw up, sharp, long claws coming to your neck and pressing down, threatening to open up your skin with a burning sting. You suck in a panicked breath and Peter bares his teeth, growls just slightly.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he threatens. Kayla clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth, slowly tsk-ing Peter, shaking her head and tilting it to the side. Peter stays where he’s at, keeping his composure.

“Oooh,” she breathes out slowly, as if she’s just discovered something juicy. “You should know better than _that_ , Peter,” she teases. Her voice, dark and deep, almost echoes in the empty woods around you. The boots on her feet crunch the snow as she stalks towards Peter. “You don’t bring things you love to a hostile negotiation.” Peter stands his ground, keeping his eyes on the her as she stares at him, sizes him up, a murky playfulness projecting out of her.

“I don’t,” Peter says evenly, firmly, and even you wonder if he’s telling the truth or not. Peter’s always been a good liar, but there’s something slightly off. He’s almost trying too hard. Kayla raises her eyebrows, intrigued.

“No?” She turns and starts walking towards you, making you even more nervous. Your blood races through you and you have to fight the urge to fidget, to flee. “You guys want to make a deal?” Her sunken eyes look you up and down, not like a piece of meat, but like a fine piece of treasure, like the golden egg, and _that_ is even more unsettling than the claws you feel your throat push into when you swallow. “Let’s make a deal then.”

When Kayla take the place of the Cerberus, moving swiftly behind you, a sword suddenly appearing in her hand, taking the place of the claws across your throat, you see Peter lean forward just slightly, resisting the urge to rush towards you and tear the witch to shreds. You can feel her press her cheek to the side of your head, feel her breath in your ear. You try to stay still.

“I’ll do whatever you want,” she says harshly, breathily, a hand coming to rest possessively on your hip. “If you let me cut her.”

“No.” Peter’s response is hard and blunt and he says it before Kayla even fully finishes her last word. “No deal.” There’s a chuckle in your ear.

“Fine.” The blade slips slowly away from your throat and you let out a relieved breath. You would have argued, would have agreed to her terms if you’d been given the chance, but the blade being removed brought a rush of relief nevertheless. “I’ll stop with the whole killing people thing,” Kayla continues, a flippancy in her tone. The blade suddenly reappears along your belly, the hand on your hip rising up to replacere the sword on your throat. It gives a tender squeeze. “If you let me slice her open.”

“Stop,” Peter says firmly, still resisting the urge to rip off her arm. Kayla smiles against your skin and nods.

“I’ll leave this town and never come back,” she moves the sword to your arm, right at your wrist. You wince away from it, but she just follows you, keeping the edge right along the soft, tender part of your inner wrist. “If I can just cut off her hand.”

“Enough!” Peter shouts. His composure finally breaks and he takes two hard strides forward. Kayla whistles lowly in your ear and takes a step back, pulling you with her body by your throat. You resist the urge to cough. Peter stops advancing, eyes starting to glow around the edges, teeth sharpening into fangs. He lets out a low growl. The Cerberus takes a single step towards him, a warning step.

“Looks like the big bad wolf found his little red,” she taunts, fingers slowly stroking the thin skin of your throat, sending chills down your spine. Her grip tightens just slightly as she presses her lips harshly against your ear. “You see,” she hisses. “If it were anyone else where you are, he’d let it happen. He’d, at the very least, consider letting me slice and dice them, but not you. Why do you think that is?” Kayla takes the shell of your ear between her teeth and you jerk your head away as Peter’s eyes enclose in blue and a full growl comes out. Kayla laughs. “See, I knew he had a _thing_ for you judging by the way he fucked you the other night, but this?” Another chuckle. “Oh, _this_ is something else. He’s boiling inside,” she whispers through teeth. “He wants to dismember me for even being near you, for touching you.” She finally moves her head away from your face and you let your neck straighten out. She laughs again, readjusting her grip on the sword. “You shouldn’t have brought her, Hale.” The sword comes back up to your throat faster than your brain can process. You feel the edge of it split open a sliver of your skin and a sharp sting before there’s an arrow flying past your head and bursting into a bright light when it hits a tree next to you.

The blinding light of the arrow is enough to startle the witch. The sword moves away from your throat and the next thing you feel is a calloused hand wrapping around your wrist, pulling you forward, away from Kayla. Your vision fuzzy and white, you follow the lead of Peter, pulling you and running away, fleeing deeper into the forest.

You run until Kayla’s frustrated screams fade, until your feet hurt and your lungs burn, until you’re sure the Cerberus isn’t chasing you. Peter slows your pace just before you guys come to the road. Your momentum propels your forward a little further and you use your hands to brace against a tree to finally stop you.

“Are you okay?” Peter asks, his breathing recovering quicker than yours. You nod your head and swallow, the cold air burning in your lungs, before you turn to face him, resting your back on the hard bark, not even caring how it pokes into you through your jacket.

“I’m okay,” you tell him. “Did they have enough time, do you think?”

“That should have been plenty of time for Scott to get in and out.” Peter’s eyes fall to your neck and he sees the thin line of blood from where the sword had scraped. It’s no worse than a razor cut, but you can see the way the rage bubbles inside of him again. He approaches you quickly, fingers going to touch just underneath it, to examine it.

“I’m okay, really,” you say, lifting your chin to give him a better view. His fingers trace up your neck to your jawline and hover there. “She just likes messing with you.”

“She was right though.” You lower your chin back down and look into his eyes. It’s a look you haven’t seen on him before. He almost looks vulnerable as he gazes at you. “I shouldn’t have brought you with tonight.” His thumb strokes your cheek softly and the possible implication of what he said hangs in the air between you.

He’d fought you about coming, had told you that you shouldn’t go, but this was different. This was because of what she said. And him agreeing with her? You know he cares about you. You know there’s attraction and affection and a friendship that could be more, but to hear him say it, to imply that maybe it was something more than was… intense.

He leans in, brings himself closer to you, his chest pressing into you. You tilt your head up, expecting a kiss, welcoming it even. But he pauses and the moment passes and with a heavy sigh, he steps back away from you.

“We should get back,” he says. “Before she comes after us.” You nod quickly, not even sure how else to react. He moves to the road, picking the direction to lead you in, naturally knowing which way to go. You walk besides him and this time, it’s him who takes your hand. “And you’re staying with me tonight.”

For the first time all day, you don’t argue with him.


	31. Complicated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things change between you and Peter

It only takes five minutes before Chris pulls up in his SUV. He stops next to you in the middle of the road and unlocks the doors. Peter lets go of your hand and ushers you into the back seat first before shuffling himself inside.

“You okay?” Allison asks, twisting around from the passenger seat to look at you. Chris puts his foot on the accelerator before Peter even shuts the door.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you reply. “Just a little scratch.” You reach up and gently brush your fingers over the cut on your neck. It’s the smallest indent in your skin, the dried blood making it more textured and jagged feeling. It won’t even scar.

“Cut it a little close back there,” Chris says evenly, his eyes rising up to the rearview mirror. He doesn’t look at you, but rather at Peter with almost an accusatory glare. Peter sneers back at him. “A little surprised you didn’t signal us to step in.”

“We were fine,” Peter snaps back at him, a slight possessiveness in his voice. “I had her.” You watch a little uncomfortably as the two men stare each other down, Chris’ eyes flickering back to the road occasionally.

“Scott says they got it,” Allison says, either oblivious to whatever was going on between the two men or very casually and strategically changing the subject. “They’re on their way to Deaton’s.”

“What’s the plan now?” you ask, burying your hands into your pockets. Your skin is starting to itch and burn from the sudden shock of being somewhere with heat again.

“We are taking you guys to a hotel right outside Beacon Hills for the night,” Chris says. “Need to lie low for the night. She’s not going to be happy once she realizes her talisman is missing.” 

“Did you call ahead?” Peter asks, shuffling himself in the seat and readjusting his coat. Chris rolls his eyes and doesn’t look back at either of you.

“Yes,” he replies none too happily. “You would have been better off at a motel. Less obvious.” Peter cringes.

“We are _not_ staying at a motel. They’re dingy and the lighting sucks.” He has that stuck up tone of voice and you try not to smile at it. Even at a time like this, Peter is still Peter. “Besides,” he continues. “Motels don’t have any form of security. A witch walks into the lobby of a nice hotel with a giant dog, people are going to notice.”

“Great,” Chris snaps. “She kills a hotel full of people because you want good reading light.” Allison turns in her seat to raise an eyebrow at you, slightly amused by the men snapping at each other.

“More like she won’t even try to come after us because even she isn’t that stupid.” Peter squints his eyes and point to the road ahead. “Why don’t you just drive?

Chris defiantly glances in the mirror, but doesn’t say anything, pressing on the accelerator a little harder.

—

The hotel isn’t super fancy or anything, but certainly not shabby at all. You’re pretty sure it’s one of the dozens of Hilton chains. It’s got a nice lobby and the woman who checks you in gives you each a bottle of water. It’s only when you’re standing at the counter that your hands feel empty.

“I don’t have a bag,” you whisper to Peter.

“Neither do I,” he comments casually, taking the room key from the woman. “We can get some extra clothes at the gift shop if we need them.”

“Enjoy your stay Mr. Hale,” the woman says and Peter smiles kindly at her before reaching for your hand and leading you towards the elevator. It’s not even surprising to you that he knows exactly where it is.

“Room service work for you for dinner?” he asks as you walk into the elevator. He pushes the button for the fifth floor and the doors close quickly. 

“Doesn’t matter to me.” You shrug and give his hand a small squeeze. You’re starting to like how warm his skin is, a chill from the winter air still trickling down your spine. “I’m not too hungry right now.” 

“Me neither.” The door opens to a hallway with dark colored, thin carpet with a pattern of circles on it. You can’t help but think it’d be more appealing if it was fuller, fluffier, if it didn’t feel hard under your feet, if it had been more like Peter’s. 

“So,” you start slowly as you walk out of the elevator, walking besides Peter as you follow the signs to find your room. “What’s with you and Argent?”

“What do you mean?” he feigns innocence as he drops your hand to unlock the hotel room door. “I’ve never liked him.”

The room has a king bed with soft, white sheets and a flat screen TV. Dark curtains are pulled across the large windows on the opposite side of the room. It’s nothing special, just a regular room. You’d half expected a jacuzzi next to the bed and complimentary food and alcohol on the desk, like Peter was a VIP of some kind. It was just a regular room though.

“Besides,” Peter adds once the door closes behind you. “You haven’t noticed his eyes on your ass?” You let out a scoff of a laugh at that.

“What? Like yours?” you tease. Honestly, no, you hadn’t noticed Chris checking you out or being anything other than cordial.

“Mine are allowed to be there.” He shrugs his jacket off and tosses it on the desk chair. You walk up to him, teasing smile still on your face.

“And his aren’t?” The closer to him you get, the more you see there’s not a lot of humor in his eyes. They aren’t hard or angry, but they’re serious, careful. His hand reaches out to you, thumb brushing gently over your throat, doing a quick check of the cut before running along your jawline, cupping your face. 

“No. His aren’t.” Suddenly you’re finding it a little harder to breathe. The smile on your face slowly slips away. You had meant to simply tease Peter, but somehow it turned. He takes a step closer to you, closing the distance and nearly bumping into you.

“Whose are?” Your voice catches slightly, but the words come out.

“Mine.” There’s no growl in his voice like you expected there to be. His head dips down, forehead dropping to yours. “Only mine.” Your hands are coming up to his hips, holding onto him and pulling on him just slightly. You feel light and hot and your head spins. “At least,” He tilts his head just a little, both angling his mouth better for yours and making a questioning gesture. “That’s the way I would have it.” 

Peter moves his hand from your face and slips both of them into the collar of your coat, pushing it back and off of your shoulders. Once it’s off, you bring your hands up to his chest, tracing up his body until you can wrap your arms around his neck. 

“You want me to be yours?” you ask breathlessly. The words sound silly, juvenile even, but they hold a lot of weight, hold a lot of things neither of you have said or discussed or maybe even considered before.

“You could say that.” He tries to make it light, unable to say the words he seems to want to. You’re okay with that. It’s not like you’re great at expressing yourself either and this right here? It may not be all words, it may not be asking you to go steady or calling you his girlfriend or anything, but it’s something. It’s… _complicated_.

“Does that make you mine?” The words are whispered, your lips almost brushing against his as you speak. Your eyes are closed and you realize you don’t remember when you closed them, but you’re afraid to open them, like if you do, the moment will be broken and he’ll slip away from you.

Peter doesn’t answer you, instead shifts the slightest bit closer and kisses you. It’s so different than any other time you’ve kissed. It’s soft and almost hesitant. He just presses his lips onto yours and pulls you close.

In those few moments, in that kiss, you can feel everything change. His touch is gentler and time moves slower. When he strips your clothes off of you, he takes his time. There’s no tearing or rushed frenzy. His hands run over you, but he takes his time, like he’s trying to feel every inch of you in a more intimate way. You find yourself doing the same thing to him. 

When he presses you down onto the bed, you realize this is the first time you’ve actually been in a bed together. It’s always been on the couch or the floor or against a wall, but never a bed. You hadn’t even realized it before, never paid attention. But now, with a mattress pressing into your back, it seems so obvious.

For the first time, you both take everything slow. There’s more kissing and touching. There’s more exploring each other. When you stroke him, it’s slow and deliberate. Your hand snakes between your bodies and holds him, slides over him so you can feel every inch, every pulse. When he gets close, he stops you, not ready to be done yet.

There are no words, no dirty talk. When he finally slides into you, he’s watching your eyes. His thrusts are slow and long and he doesn’t stop watching you. You cling to him, wrapping your legs around his waist and threading your hands through his hair.

You finish together, him spilling inside of you and your toes curling. Moans and sounds of pleasure get muffled and caught in each other’s mouths as he kisses you again. He doesn’t really collapse on top of you, but he lowers himself down, presses his chest to yours, rests his head on the pillow next to yours, staying buried inside of you.

You stay there, tangled together with Peter as you try to catch your breath. He turns his head and places lazy love bites on your neck. You stroke his back, running your fingertips down his spine, enjoying the serenity of the afterglow.

He rolls off of you, but keeps an arm strewn over your waist. The silence fills the room, but it’s not awkward. It’s not weird or strange. There’s no fear of what to do next or where to go. It was just silent. You both know things have changed now, but it doesn’t need to be said. And it’s not a bad thing.

You turn your head to look at him and he has a small smile on his lips. You press your lips to his one more time.

Definitely not a bad thing.


	32. Dark and Bitter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You have some realizations about Peter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’M ALIVE!!! I want to send a huge thank you to everyone for waiting all these months for me to update and for checking in on me. I don’t know how often I’ll be updating but I am still determined to finish this for you guys. Also, this is shorter than I wanted, I originally wanted to include the next part at Deaton’s, but I want to get this out. If all goes well, you’ll have another chapter this weekend.

There’s a refreshed, glowing feeling when you wake up in the morning. You feel like you’ve just slept for a couple of days and your body and mind are brand new. You feel _good_.

You let your mind drift back to last night. After the sex, things had been light and floaty. Even fun. You stayed tangled together for a while, just running your fingers over each other’s skin and enjoying the moment. You both put on the complimentary hotel robes and the sight of Peter in a white fluffy robe seemed to shift the mood into something more lighthearted.

You ordered room service and it felt like things were back to normal. You bantered over food and coffee, flirted, smiled, and laughed. It felt like it was before things got confusing and complicated and dangerous. Everything felt like you stepped back in time except for that one little thing; his eyes.

He looked at you just a little softer, held your gaze a little longer. There’s almost the shimmer of a small smile reflected in them and it made you blush like a little school girl. You found yourself giggling and looking down, afraid to hold his stare like it was going to vanish if it saw you looking. It was different, but you weren’t exactly complaining.

You remember curling up in bed, his arm wrapped around your shoulders as you watched some random TV movie on the small screen in the hotel room. Your eyes got heavy and you rested your head on his chest, falling asleep. Now though, after you’ve soaked in that refreshed feeling for a good minute, you turn to reach for Peter again and find yourself alone in bed.

The sheets look slept in, all crinkled and scrunched, and there’s still the faint indent in the pillow, but there’s no one there. You sit up in the bed and look around the room. The TV is turned off and you don’t see Peter anywhere, don’t hear any water running in the bathroom. You suddenly feel exposed when you realize you only had a thin shirt and panties on. You pull the sheet over your legs up to your chest and reach for your phone on the nightstand. No messages.

Right when you start to feel that small sliver of anxiety creep up through your stomach into your throat, you hear the electronic lock of the door buzzing and clicking. Peter appears around the corner momentarily after and a small wave of relief spreads through you, relaxing your shoulders even though you didn’t realize they had tensed up.

“Morning,” he greets lightly, holding two cups of coffee in to-go cups. He lips slant in a teasing smirk, noticing the way you suddenly relaxed. “Worried I took off on you?”

In just that small moment between him asking and your response slipping out of your mouth almost autonomously, you realize that the answer truly is a very solid no. The thought hadn’t even floated across your mind. Why hadn’t it?

“Actually, jackass, I was thinking more along the lines of you got into trouble.” You’re smiling even though you try to add some attitude into your tone. How are you more worried about his safety than him abandoning you? Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do? Worry that the guy you’re… seeing? Is that the right word even? It feels like more than that, but still. You should probably be more worried about the villainous, untrustworthy werewolf abandoning you than his safety. But you know why you’re not. And you’re a little terrified to admit it.

“Aww, you were worried about me,” He feigns sincerity. “How sweet.”

“Is one of those for me?” You nod to the coffee in his hands, sidestepping the conversation completely. “Or are you in need of that much caffeine?” He gives a brief chuckle before stepping up next to the bed.

When he hands you the cup, he holds onto it for a moment and does something you never would have expected as you look up at him. He leans down and presses a gentle kiss to your forehead. It’s such a small and sweet gesture and it causes those butterflies to flare up, causes that feeling of dropping on a roller coaster, that rush of being swept off your feet. He pulls back and starts walking away like it was nothing.

You take a small sip of the coffee and immediately cringe. It’s completely black. Peter sits down at the office desk across from the bed and before you can mention it, he takes a drink out of the coffee in his hand. His face grimaces and he pulls the cup away from his mouth like it offended him.

“I think you mixed up the coffees,” you laugh. His face is still puckered and insulted by the sweetness of the drink. You throw the sheet off of you and walk up to him, offering the cup in your hand to him. “I don’t know you drink it black. It tastes awful.”

“Me?” he scoffs, stealing his black coffee back. “I had to ask the barista _twice_ to add more cream to yours.” He shakes his head at you as you take a drink of the correct coffee. “It’s practically just milk.”

“It is not!” you protest. “It’s a reflection of me,” you say, pulling the response out of nowhere. You bat at his free arm for him to move it out of your way and slide yourself to stand at his side. He rests his hand on your hip and gives a little gentle pressure.

“Is that right?” He maneuvers you to sit on his knee and you put an arm around his shoulders.

“Yeah. Light and sweet, but still have that kick hidden there to wake you up,” you joke with him.

“Then I guess black suits me as well,” he hums. “Dark and bitter.” You tilt your head and raise your eyebrows slightly in a bit of a shrug. Not too many people would argue with that statement.

“Maybe,” you muse, gently running your fingers over the back of his neck. “But you’re not as nearly as dark and bitter as you try to be.” He looks up at you, almost thoughtfully. He looks like he wants to say something, but doesn’t. “So how long do we stay here?” you ask, giving him an easy out and breaking your stares by looking out and motioning to the hotel room. He takes a drink of his coffee before answering.

“Check out is at 11. Argent will meet us outside then and we’ll meet up at Deaton’s.” His hand gently runs across the waistband line of your panties, brushing warm fingers over your skin. “Derek’s getting released this morning so he’ll meet us there as well.” There’s a change in his tone, something somber.

“That’s good, right?” He simply hums in response, looking out at the room. For the first time, you’re noticing how Peter’s truly reacting to the situation. Before, when it was just a Cerberus, just another murderous monster roaming about, things were normal for him. But now, with it being a personal attack on him and his family, you’re starting to see the shift.

 _You think I murdered the people who slaughtered my entire family because I don’t care?_ His words echo in the back corners of your mind. He doesn’t want the people he cares about in the middle of this and it’s becoming increasingly obvious that this fight isn’t easy. It’s dangerous and people are going to get hurt. And there’s nothing he can do to stop it.

You suddenly feel like there’s a weight on your shoulders. Your body feels heavy and tired and while you don’t feel sorry for Peter, you feel something. It’s not pity, but more like a shared burden. You wonder briefly if this is how Derek feels all the time, if this is what the Hale men do; take all the pain and weight and burden for the people they care about and put it on themselves.

Was that why Peter was so distant and cold to everyone? If you had gone through what he had, wouldn’t you feel like it wasn’t worth it to get attached to anyone?

“Hey,” you say, pulling his attention back to you. “Don’t go getting dark and bitter on me now.” He lets out a huff of air in a small, short laugh and his lips tilt upwards just slightly. He shifts his knee underneath you and pats your side.

“Why don’t you go shower and get cleaned up?” he says, changing the subject. “We can order in some breakfast and then get going.” You stand up, taking another drink of your coffee, hand lingering on the back of his neck. “Promise I won’t get myself into too much trouble while you’re gone,” he teases.

“You Hales have a knack for getting into trouble,” you say with a smile. He puts a hand over his chest, feigning offense.

“Us?” he says slightly exaggerating his tone shocked tone. “You’re the one who likes to throw yourself head first into danger. Derek and I had a plan to keep you in the dark, and _safe_ I might add, until Stiles blabbed about Derek being in the hospital. If anything, it’s you who needs a talking to.” He stands up next to you and presses a kiss to your cheek. “Now go get ready.” He leaves you with a small smile on your face as he goes to get the room service menu that had been carelessly discarded on the floor last night.

You can’t help but be curious about what Derek and Peter had talked about, how they talked about you and what exactly they had said. In the hospital, Derek had admitted, albeit unhappily, that you were important to Peter. Had Peter said something to him or did Derek just know? Could Derek sense it? Smell it? You can’t imagine Peter just coming out and saying anything explicit to his nephew, at least not in a serious fashion.

Your mind drifts back to the feeling of not being worried about Peter leaving you. You’ve trusted him for a while now in a fight. You trust him in a survival situation. He’d proved he had your back in the field, but in a more romantic state? That was a little different. Maybe it was Derek confirming it. Maybe it was the way Peter started looking at you last night. Maybe it was just a slow progression of everything you’d been through the last few months. No matter what caused it, you knew one thing for sure. Peter isn’t going anywhere. And neither are you.


End file.
